


Love in the Bodies of the Elephants Too

by apollos



Category: South Park
Genre: American Sign Language, Donuts, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Angst, First Time, Gambling, Healing Sex, Intimacy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mixtape, Prom, Sexual Tension, Therapy, bitcoin, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 69,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Craig and Tweek have been going out for the past eight years because, well, that's just what they do, yet they've gotten themselves convinced they're not in love. The story of how a couple in a long-term relationship becomes a couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Right in Front of Me

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i've crumbled under the creek pressure. this is probably gonna be sporadically updated and super cliche. i even named it after a song! five year's time by noah the whale. but music is a really important theme in this, okay, so it's totally justified. 
> 
> the prologue is from craig's point of view but the rest of the fic will be from tweek's. 
> 
> tweeks's mixtape: http://8tracks.com/ap0llos/for-craig

Craig was, like the small animals he adored, a creature of habit. Every day before heading off to Park County High School he would stop at the same Dunkin’ Donuts off the highway and order the same thing, an unsweetened iced coffee, holding it in his gloved hand and relishing the cold against the other cold. He would listen to the same C.D., a terrible mixtape that Tweek had made him for their fifth anniversary, and he would always sing in falsetto to _Prom Song (Gone Wrong)_ by Lana Del Rey, I _knew you loved me by the way you looked in second period_ , and he would think about how Tweek’s eyes would light up as soon as he saw Craig. He wasn’t in love with Tweek, though. He was a creature of habit and that was what their fake relationship had become. They had kissed a few times for show, they had the tendency of holding hands and they liked to cuddle when they were alone, but they weren’t in love by any means. They loved each other in a purely habitual platonic way.

At school he would park in the same place, though that wasn’t by choice so much by force, as each student had assigned parking spots. The school gave you the option to decorate them; Craig’s was plain, though he had painted the bumper a deep olive green and written _Craig <3 Tweek_ on it. For appearances. Tweek himself did not have a first period their senior year, working in his family’s coffee shop until he drove to school, and Craig wasn’t in love with him so he didn’t wake up early to see him off. But by habit he missed him and he waited in Tweek’s parking spot, with his bumper painted navy blue and bearing _Tweek <3 Craig_, after first period. Their spots were side-by-side; Tweek had the tendency to put dents in Craig’s passenger door by parking crookedly.

After Tweek would appear they would kiss (even if nobody was in the parking lot--you never know who could be looking) and head off hand-in-hand to their shared second period study hall. Tweek, having been up since four in the morning at the shop, would take a nap; Craig would do whatever homework Tweek had blown off before his own. Craig would always do well on tests while Tweek would crumble under pressure and thus this strategy worked for them, putting their grades in an acceptable equal range.

The bell would ring and startle Tweek. Craig would kiss his forehead to calm him down and then walk him to Chemistry before heading off to Calculus II for himself. Math was Craig’s best subject--he intended on being a video game designer in the future--and so instead of paying any attention, he would write in the margin of his notes the lyrics to another one of Tweek’s terrible mixtape songs: _I know you get me so I let my walls fall down._ The version of _Teenage Dream_ Tweek had put on the mix was a male cover; Craig appreciated the effort.

Then it was time for fourth period, another Tweekless class, though Clyde shared it with him. It was some bullshit French class Craig took to fulfill the language requirement but Clyde was earnestly into it, supposedly to impress chicks. He had a pretty good French accent; Craig suspected this was due to the naturally annoying quality of his voice. Craig would write Tweek love letters in French, very publicly, and that is what he would do, even if the most he knew how to say was _Je t’aime_ , over and over.The first song on the mixtape was dedicated to their fourth grade drama: _with tears in my eyes I begged you to stay, you said “hey man, I love you, but no fucking way.”_ Craig always skipped it; he did not like the memory. Clyde would look over his shoulder at his love notes and proclaim him totally gay. Craig would flip him off.

Craig and Tweek would leave in Craig’s car for another Dunkin’ run during lunch. Their coffee order was the same, though Craig took his cold and Tweek warm, and Craig never thought about how much that symbolized them, not at all. Craig would eat fruit he’d brought from home while Tweek would eat two donuts, and they were teenage boys so they could get away with this, in the parking lot of their school for the entirety of the forty-five minute lunch break. Craig would stare at how crystals of sugar would get stuck on Tweek’s lips, always forgetting he could kiss them off, it was okay, they were boyfriends. But that would be gay.

After lunch Craig didn’t have a class and would take the opportunity to go to the emptiest bathroom in the school, the one on the hidden fourth floor, and beat off, remembering Tweek’s lips and the exposed skin under his misbuttoned shirt. Sometimes, especially if he’d missed out on his pre-bed jack-off session, his mind would wander to memories of bathing with Tweek. Since they weren’t actually gay or in love or anything, that was acceptable, because it was one of the only times Craig could get Tweek relaxed. Craig would dig his cold, bony fingers into Tweek’s shoulders, massaging them; Tweek would shiver, even though the bathwater would be scolding enough to leave them pink. Craig would wash Tweek’s hair carefully, combing it out with his fingers. Tweek would fall asleep against Craig’s chest. They would remain in the bathtub until Craig felt the water was too cold, at which point he would wake Tweek and Tweek would yell at him for letting him sleep. There was, of course, a song dedicated to this on the mixtape and though the lyrics didn’t quite match, the feel of it did: _Wanderer’s Lullaby_ by Adriana Figueroa.

Jacking off usually took him all of ten minutes and so he would meet up with Token, who also had a free period, to play card games and talk to each other. Token would generally try to inquire in some sly way about Craig and Tweek’s relationship; Craig would flip him off and tell him to mind his own business; Token would laugh. Sometimes they would play for money and during these times Craig would always cheat, Token naturally betting more than he should, and take Tweek to Dunkin’ again for an after-school donut with the money he won. Craig, with unemployed parents and a pill-popping mother, was much poorer than Tweek and so Tweek would generally always pay for their dates. But Craig liked being able to provide sometimes. He was going to be rich in the future, making famous video games, and he would treat Tweek to everything he could then. Tweek was really into architecture; Craig had a lot of fantasies about the type of house they would design together, funded by Craig’s wealth.“You’re getting that spacy look in your eyes,” Token would always say at this point.

As seniors in their second semester of high school, sixth period was Tweek and Craig’s last. Unless there was a test or something else needing attention they both tended to skip it: Tweek had English and Craig had some bullshit class called Global Studies. Craig would follow Tweek to Craig’s house, as Craig’s parents cared less, and they would go into Craig’s room and sit cross-legged on the bed across from each other. They’d drink, or they’d share a joint, or they’d just sit there and talk about their days, Craig tracing patterns on Tweek’s knees, Tweek’s hands twitching too much to do any sort of proper holding but his feet in Craig’s lap. This would generally give Craig a boner; they just ignored that. It was worse on the donut days.

They weren’t gay. They weren’t in love. They were just--well, they were small creatures of habit, afraid to change. This is what Craig told himself. This is what Tweek agreed to. They lived their lives in perfect tangent to each other’s, but that was because that was what they had done for eight years. The thought of doing anything else made Craig anxious; of separating or of giving in, the latter of which was locked so far back in Craig’s mind that he did not realize he was even anxious of it.

Most of the time Tweek would stay the night, slipping out of bed in the morning to go off to work, leaving Craig to wake up alone. Sometimes Tweek’s parents complained about this, though, and he would have to return home. Craig would listen to the stupid mixtape in his bed, his long legs drawn up to his chest, feeling some sort of feeling he couldn’t identify. It was sad, maybe. Longing. His routine had been disrupted and all he had was the comfort of the stupid mixtape with its stupid songs that fit so stupidly well. _I love these roads where the houses don’t change (and I like you), where we can talk like there’s something to say (and I like you.)_ Yes, Tweek, he would buy you orange juice. He would buy you an entire orange grove. He was going to make Tweek a mixtape for their tenth anniversary. He was up to seven songs that captured the past three years of their life well so far.

And these were Craig’s days. Until they weren’t.

 


	2. Chapter One: As In Love With You As I Am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from the xx's "angels." prologue's title has also been changed, from "i found" by amber run. i know it's cliche, but it has a reason (that's probably really obvious), okay!! i can't give an estimate of how long this fic is gonna be yet but i will attest that i want it to be on the not-short side.

March mornings were, like most other mornings in South Park, cold, dark and damp. It was difficult to wiggle out from under Craig without waking him, even more difficult to leave the bed and drive to work, but Tweek had to do it anyway. Craig was a silent, still sleeper, but he always made a slight whine when Tweek left his side and every morning Tweek would stand and look at him, wondering if it was really worth it, before he remembered his father would kick his ass if he wasn't in the store by four-thirty for set-up and early customers.

It's not even like Tweek Bros. Coffee was booming. They were practically on the brink of extinction. They were pricier than chains and their coffee just wasn't as convenient as the Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts drive-throughs available on the main highways taking South Park residents away from their hometown for work and school. They had a few loyal customers and it was a popular in-town date spot, but that was about it. The mornings were shit. The job was shit. But leaving Craig was the most shit of it all.

Still, though, Tweek tread quiet as a mouse down the Tuckers' stairs and through the early melting snow to his car. He'd stolen a jacket of Craig's, an old leather thing he'd gone through a phase of wearing in the tenth grade, this morning. That was Tweek's habit: to make the morning less bearable he'd take an article of clothing from Craig to wear at the store. On his most daring days he'd steal a pair of boxers, feeling invincible and impenetrable through the morning shift for it. Today's jacket hung off of him while he fumbled his keys and wasn't very warm, but it smelled like Craig, and that was enough.

The drive to the store was quick. He didn't have to stop home, having taken a bath with Craig the night before and having his school things in his car, so he went directly to work. The lights were on, his parents' car parked in the back when Tweek swung into it. Nerves and a caffeine craving already creeping in, his parking job was absolutely shit.

"Tweek!" He could tell by the tone of his father's voice that he was not pleased. "You have got to stop staying over at the Tuckers' every night. Your mother and I hardly see you."

 _You just want me to work in the shop all my life._  "Craig's my boyfriend, Dad," he mumbled, jerking his way behind the counter to prepare himself his first of many coffees in the day. Nerves, caffeine cravings  _and_ Craig withdrawals-the deadly three.

"We know that, honey, but parents don't normally allow this behavior from their children," his mom said from where she was writing today's special on the board. "I guess since there's no risk of pregnancy-"

"We don't have sex! Jesus!"

His parents made a noncommittal noise. Tweek sighed and waited for his coffee to heat up.

Eight years of dating and all they'd done was kiss-no tongues. That was fine by Tweek; they weren't really gay. They weren't really pretending anymore, either, but this was the habit, the routine, the easiest thing. Tweek had too many other things to worry about-the things he saw that others didn't, the nerves that seemed to writhe like snakes in his body, the stress from the coffee shop-to worry about the exact nature of his relationship with his boyfriend. He loved him, he loved being with him, and that was enough. The mantra, always:  _that was enough, that was enough, that was enough_.

As expected, it was a slow morning. Tweek saw nobody he'd have an interest in holding a conversation with-it was mostly old men with dead wives who had nobody to make their coffee for them in the morning and who couldn't drive a long distance and the odd middle-aged loyalist. He guzzled coffee after coffee, his parents admonishing him for wasting the product, but he could not seem to stop twitching. His four-hour morning shift went by so  _slowly_.

He listened to his own copy of the mixtape he'd made Craig on the way to school as he often did to pass the thirty-minute drive. He tapped the drumbeats into his steering wheels and sang as loudly as possible, exerting energy that way.  _If I can just see Craig_ , he told himself,  _that will be enough_. Craig, tall and sturdy and stoic and going to kiss him as soon as they saw each other. Craig, his boyfriend, whom he was not in love with, but whom he loved very, very much. He was already making plans for this afternoon-they were going to shop on Amazon for a shower curtain for their college apartment, bundled up on Craig's bed, knees and shoulders touching. It might be shaping up to be another bath day, another fall-asleep-there day.

Craig was waiting in his usual spot in Tweek's parking place. Tweek shoved his door open before turning off his car and rushed out in a hurry, the leather jacket rustling against yesterday's clothes. He wanted to throw himself into Craig's arms, but that would be ridiculous, there were people watching. Instead he accepted the usual chaste kiss, his quivering ceasing immediately

"You're wearing my jacket," Craig deadpanned, donning a faint smile.

"You don't wear it anymore." Tweek reached out and took Craig's hand, started walking toward their second period. A nap was in his future; that was what he focused on.

"Mmm. How was work?"

"Horrible! Jesus. I'm  _exhausted_. And my parents want me home."

"They are your parents, you know." But Craig had that sly, inside joke smile. Tweek was pretty sure Craig wanted him around as much as he did, too. "They care about you."

"Not like  _you_." Spending so much time faking a relationship did lend a certain closeness. Perhaps a closeness greater than an actual relationship; you had to agree on so much, you had to spend so much time developing your presentations, you had to understand each other to the deepest possible extent so that you could react accordingly.

"True." Craig shrugged. He opened the door to the school for Tweek. "Whatever. We'll be on our own in three months. That's probably why your parents want to see you more"

"I don't care. I can't fucking wait." There was a group of girls lingering inside the hallway, but it wasn't for their benefit when Tweek said, "I'll never have to not sleep with you again."

"Nice double negative." Craig smiled. Tweek beamed.

Tweek napped in second period sudy hall as usual, one ankle hooked around Craig's, his head on his arms on the desk. He had Calc questions he didn't do the night before that Craig did dutifully beside him, his pencil never moving from the page, and Tweek listened to the soft sweeping sound and watches the kind-of-beautiful motion until sleep claimed him. And then the bell was ringing and Tweek was jumping up and the world was exploding and Craig was shushing him.

This shot of Craig in the morning was typically enough to last Tweek until he saw him again at lunch; today was no exception. Spanish and Social Studies flew by, Tweek only jiggling his leg, paying about three-fourths of attention to the lessons. That was enough by Tweek's standard and he was cheerful for lunch, looking forward to donuts and coffee in the parking lot with Craig.

On the way to and from they bitched and bullshitted about what had been going on in their lives as normal, but when Craig was parked, putting up the console and twisting to face Tweek, he seemed a bit awkward. His iced coffee was resting against his crotch and his fingers were worrying the bag of fresh pineapple he procured from a small cooler in the backseat.

"What's up, Craig?" Tweek asked, pausing in the middle of his donut. He licked his lips.

"We're going to prom this year," Craig announced.

"Well-yeah?" This behavior worried Tweek. "We did that last year?"

"This year, the couples are renting rooms at the hotel in Denver. I guess, uh. We're expected to do that as well." Craig was still playing with the bag of pineapple.

"Okay," Tweek said. He'd completely stilled, and then he jerked violently, swallowing hard. "What's the problem?"

"Nothing. I was just informing you." Craig put a hand on Tweek's knee; Tweek could fill anxiety leaving his body like blood from a wound. "I guess I'll get some pot from Kenny and we'll hang out by ourselves all night."

"That's what we do anyway." Tweek smiled and raised his donut back to his mouth, worry gone.

"You wanna watch Twin Peaks today?"

"Can we take a bath first? With the epsom salt and lavender bubbles?"

"Uh, duh." Craig looked at Tweek. "You need a change of clothes."

Tweek groaned. "That's so much pressure! My parents will be home, they'll want me to stay-"

"I'd offer you mine, but they won't fit." Craig smiled a nice, sarcastic smile; if Tweek hadn't been preoccupied worrying about his parents, he would've socked him, as this was a diss against his height.

"I'll get some before work tomorrow," Tweek decided. It wasn't like he'd need them tonight; he'd just wear his boxers and one of Craig's shirts after the bath. Craig said he liked the way his large shirt looked on Tweek, reaching down to his butt and hanging around his protruding collarbones, his skinny shoulders. It was  _aesthetic_ , Craig said, while dipping a finger in the crevice of one of one of the collarbones or cupping a cold hand around one of the shoulders. But Tweek was getting lost, thinking about that, and directed his thoughts back to what was going to occur: Craig would bring him dinner, his parents never questioning it because they never questioned Tweek in general, just like Craig. Tweek smiled and surged forward to kiss Craig, unsure of what else to do with all this love.

"Well, fuck." Craig said when Tweek drew back. "That was gay."

Tweek shrugged. "We are gay," he laughed. Craig raised one of his eyebrows; Tweek laughed harder. Of course it was all a joke.

Craig and Tweek skipped their sixth periods went home together. Tweek hated having to drive in front of Craig, hated having to drive in general, but he had to. Before he'd learned his mother had ferried him back and forth between work and school but she'd complained that it had hurt business. Tweek knew his parents were busy with the store during the day; he knew his school was far away; he knew he had to drive. He still resented it with every fibre of his being, convinced one day he was going to cause a massive crash on the highway, taking both his life and Craig's. Even worse if he only took Craig's and was forced to live a Craigless life. It was fucking bound to happen, he was sure of it, he could feel it deeper than in his bones, in his souls. His hands were sweaty on the steering wheel, his chest hurt, there was a lump he could not swallow in his throat. His eyes kept drifting to Craig's car in the rearview, his mind to the nightmares where he lost total control of his car, where he made bad decisions even though he told himself not to.

And so he was worked up again by the time he got to Craig's. Tweek hated it, really, how anxious he could become at the drop of that hat, and this time, hidden from the eyes of judgement, he did indeed fling himself into Craig's arms. He didn't fucking  _care_ how it looked, he needed it, needed it in someplace even deeper than his bones. Craig was the only goddamn motherfucking one, the only one, who understood, who would and  _could_ hold him, relationships and lack thereof be damned.

Craig guided Tweek to his door. Tweek's height had been stunted by caffeine; Craig was on the tall side; it was like being sheltered from a storm of your emotions by a tree in human form. Tweek could shake and shake and Craig wouldn't budge, just take it all and lock it inside himself. They went up the stairs, they went into Craig's room, and slowly Tweek stopped shivering.

They smoked a bowl and watched  _Twin Peaks_ for a few hours, all bundled up in bed under the covers and dozing on and off. Tweek loved Craig's room, loved how neat it was, how dark and cold and soothing. He loved the old, worn-in blankets that they burrowed under. He loved the glowing planets lined up on Craig's dresser, purchased by Token for one of his birthdays, Jupiter basketball-sized and the rest in scale. He loved the glow-in-the-dark stars they'd bounced on Craig's bed to stick on the ceiling in sixth grade. He loved the way the shades were always drawn and the fan always on. Most of all he loved Craig.  _But I'm not in love with him, because that would be gay_ , he reminded himself in-between sleep and awake, forgetting the thoughts as soon as they occurred.

Together they napped in the way that made your mouth taste funny and your muscles tense when you woke up. Tweek twitched out of sleep, nearly falling off the bed; Craig grabbed him before that could happen. "Bath time," Tweek announced, grimacing.

"Dinner first." Craig pointed to the alarm clock on his bedside table; it was six thirty.

"I'm not hungry." Tweek sat up in bed and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm-ah! Cold."

Craig blew out air through his nose. "Dinner first," he repeated. Then: "I'm going to leave now."

Tweek turned his head to the side like a petulant child, then relaxed his muscles. "Alright," he said. "Don't forget the coffee."

"Have I ever?"

Tweek turned back and smiled against his will. "Still, man!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going now."

Craig left and closed the door behind him. Tweek knew he wouldn't be long; he'd put coffee on in advance and was just going to grab whatever his mother had made that night. But that was one of the things Tweek silently loved about Craig: he spoke so plainly, announced his intentions and plans so that Tweek never had to worry or doubt where he'd gone. Of course Tweek would fret that a fire would start, that somebody would break in through Craig's window and try to kill him, or that Craig would fall down the stairs and crack his head. But there was a timeframe, one that Tweek had become familiar with, one that allowed Tweek to know when he could start to  _seriously_ worry.

Five minutes and, as guaranteed, Craig was back.

"Here's your coffee." Craig placed it directly into Twek's hands. "And tonight we are having macaroni and cheese and fried chicken from KFC. How special." He climbed back into their nest on the bed and placed a plate with two forks in front of them.

"That stuff will kill my stomach, man." Tweek wrinkled his nose at the food.

"It'll kill it more to just drink that coffee. Here." Craig grabbed a chicken wing and peeled off the skin, plopping it in his own mouth. "Just eat the chicken."

Tweek did, and a little of the macaroni and cheese, but he generally had no appetite. Craig was ravenous, thin as a rail but always hungry. It was dark outside, the room dark, the only light coming from the glow-in-the-dark stars and Craig's lamp on the bedside table. Tweek was thinking about how nice it was going to be to take the bath and then curl up back in bed, warm and cozy.

And that was what happened. Only for Tweek to wake up in the morning and go through the whole routine again.

Tweek had therapy biweekly on Wednesdays at four, travelling forty minutes both ways to the next town over just so somebody could tell him how fucked up he was. He hated to make the drive himself, hated the highway, his nerves always fried to shreds by driving it to and from school, so Craig tended to take him. Tweek sat in the passenger seat chewing his nails and taking quick shots of coffee, one of Craig's hands on his thigh.

"She's gonna lock me away!" Tweek said, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "She's gonna say I'm fucking insane and throw me in the hospital!"

"She is not," Craig said, squeezing Tweek's thigh. "You've seen Dr. Anderson for two years. She hasn't thrown you in yet."

"She's just biding her time. Collecting evidence!" Tweek's thigh started to shake; he wasn't entirely sure if he had control over it or not.

"Evidence of what?"

"How crazy I am!"

"Tweek." It was amazing how calm Craig could remain.

"Yuh-yes?"

"You're not crazy." Craig turned and smiled at him.

Tweek wrapped his hands tightly around the coffee cup and closed his eyes.

Outside was going too fast. The cars were blurs of vicious colors, abrasive to Tweek's sensibilities, and he could feel the concrete rolling under the car as if it were alive. Vibrations racked his body. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he always felt like he was going to throw up, and he slurped lukewarm coffee down. He would have to go through withdrawal someday. Today was not that day. Fireworks went off against his eyes; he swore he could feel hands on him, more hands than just Craig's, hands with claws that wanted to scratch him up. Hands with claws attached to monsters with teeth that wanted to ruin his life.

When he was a kid, young and stupid, it was the underpants gnomes and vague closet monsters he had feared, always lurking out of sight. As he grew older irrational fears were replaced by those rooted in reality: death and pain primarily, but also imprisonment, being locked up and having to deal with only his own thoughts. It was the greatest irony of his life that Tweek had the tendency to do just that, to lock himself up with his thoughts and throw away the keys, when they were at their worst.

"Tweek." Tweek peeked an eye open. "Come back."

"Sorry!" Both eyes burst open. They sort of hurt. "I just-ah! The road is too fast, man."

"I know." Craig rubbed a circle into Tweek's thigh. "Just close your eyes again. We're almost there."

But now that he'd been instructed, Tweek couldn't close his eyes. He instead put his coffee in the cupholder and placed his head between his knees, staring at the floor of the car. Craig moved his hand from his thigh to his back, the heel massaging the knotted, tense mess that Tweek's back was. Already experiencing sensory overload, Tweek felt a surge of love so intense he thought he was going to pass out, and then Craig started singing.

In middle school Craig had joined chorus as an alternative to physical education through an exception that kids in the Gifted program received. It was then discovered that Craig sang like an angel, which turned Craig off from singing forever. It wasn't that he didn't like to sing, Tweek knew that he did; it was that he didn't like the praise or the attention. But in moments of particular distress (which were guaranteed to occur at least three times a week) he would break out his angelic voice, singing softly, hands somewhere on Tweek as a constant, a grounding point. He liked to pick songs from Tweek's mixtape; today it was  _Wonderwall_ , a mutual favorite despite their relentless mocking. _I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now._

Tweek believed it. Believed it with all the fury of his little rabbit heart bouncing around his bones. Reciprocated it as well; Tweek knew Craig was unpopular and couldn't believe it, because clearly Craig was a fucking angel.  _There are many things I would like to say to you but I don't know how_. Believed it and reciprocated it so hard it hurt in the best possible way, the opposite way that his brain hurt his body, and he brought himself back to a sitting position. Craig smiled at him and Tweek's heart shattered, just to be repaired and broken again and again, all by Craig.

Tweek's therapy was in a small building with a low roof and anemic railing. Despite its objective ugliness, Tweek felt a spiritual connection with the building: it also appeared ready to blow away by the slightest wind. Craig's arm was slung around his shoulders as usual, pinning him down, as they walked through the door and into the lobby. Craig handled the receptionist while Tweek went to his usual spot, a plush couch that ate you as soon as you sat down on it.

"Well," Craig said as he came back. "I booked our hotel room in study hall today. I forgot to tell you."

"Really?" Tweek's eyes went wide.

"Yeah. It's a nice one. I'd show you pictures, but I want you to be surprised."

"Will you tell me what hotel it's in?" If anybody else told him it were a surprise, Tweek would've ripped their throat out with anxiety. But it was Craig and every surprise Craig had promised had been great, so instead Tweek felt a different type of anxiety,  _anticipation_.

"No." Craig smiled, turning his head to stare at his lap. "You'll love it, though."

"It's in Denver, right?"

"Yeah." Craig smiled. "But there's only, like, fourteen thousand hotels in Denver, so."

"God, I hate you."

"I know." Craig turned to Tweek, smug.

They held eye contact until it was interrupted by Tweek's therapist calling for him.

The first fifteen minutes of Tweek's session were donated to Tweek's panic attack on the way there; the next fifteen the panic attacks he'd had throughout the week; now, about halfway through, Craig had come up.

"How's your relationship with Craig going?" Dr. Anderson asked.

. "Ah-great! He booked us a hotel room for prom. I don't know where, he said it was a surprise." Dr. Anderson's eyebrows furrowed, but Tweek thought nothing of it, as her eyebrows furrowed all the time. He continued on. "And he sang to me on the way here."

"You mentioned that." Dr. Anderson smiled. "It's great that you have somebody as supportive as that in your life, Tweek, but do you ever think you might be leading him on?"

Tweek balked at her.

"It's just that-" Dr. Anderson paused herself. "Well. Your relationship, it's strange."

"We've been dating for eight years," Tweek deadpanned.

"But you're not quite dating, are you?"

Tweek continued to balk.

Dr. Anderson sighed and shifted. Tweek wondered why she'd brought this up at all. Then she explained it, though it didn't make much sense to Tweek: "I'm worried your romantic, sexual and social development has been stunted and that it might be an additional source of your neurosis."

It took a bit for that to sink in, and when it did:

"Fucking quack!" Tweek screamed suddenly, leaping off the couch.

"Tweek, please sit down." Tweek didn't; Dr. Anderson continued. "You've made no indication to me that either you or Craig are asexual, but you don't experience sexual attraction to him."

"That's not true!" Tweek didn't actually know if that was true or not; he had no reference point, first of all, and second of all, he was used to justifying to outsiders the strength of his and Craig's relationship while simultaneously keeping it so secret. It was making his head hurt; he collapsed onto the couch and cradled it in his hands, craving coffee. Craig would have to run by Dunkin' again on the way back to South Park

"It's just, Tweek. You've told me before about your sex life, or lack thereof, and now he's booked you a hotel room. You do know what that means, right?"

"We sleep together every night. Not like that! But it's just a thing! It'll be late, and we'll probably drink at prom, so it's not, ah safe to drive back-" Tweek was twitching something fierce now. "Jesus! I want to end the session." He wanted Craig, but he wasn't about to say that to this fucking quack.

"Let's change the subject."

It was hopeless. Tweek couldn't focus for the rest of the session and was dismissed early, Dr. Anderson realizing how unproductive it was becoming. Seeing Craig in the waiting room sent a shiver through Tweek, though he wasn't sure why. He wasn't thinking about Dr. Anderson's questions; he was thinking about coffee and about the space documentary they'd picked out to watch on Netflix.

But in bed that night it came crawling back to Tweek, nestling between him and Craig like a scared puppy. They'd long ago accepted the erections that they never attended to; they even masturbated in the same room,, their backs to each other, that small contact warming the rest of their bodies. To even look at each other, much less touch each other, that would be gay. To say each other's name during it, that would indicate they were in love. Yet during tonight's session Craig's name had rolled around in Tweek's mouth, knocking against his pressed lips, begging to be let out.  _It's Craig you think of_ , it told him. It didn't occur to Tweek that he could turn around and have Craig-the voice was also insisting that Craig wouldn't want that, that Tweek was the fucked up one, that he would bastardize their relationship if he did. Craig was so kind. He didn't deserve Tweek. The voice was venomous, attacking every part of Tweek's body, and he was only able to come when he heard Craig moan, bringing him back to reality.

Tweek twitched in Craig's arm, waking him. "What is it?" he asked, his voice deep with sleep.

"Nuh-nothing." The voice was telling Tweek, now, that it wasn't worth it to voice these thoughts to Craig. That it would make Craig hate him. That Tweek was just fucking  _insane_.

Craig kissed the space between Tweek's eyebrows; it sent shockwaves through Tweek's body, little cracks in his skin, and he whimpered. Craig shifted and held Tweek closer. "Shh, baby. I'm here."

Maybe that was the problem but Tweek stopped caring immediately, the feeling of Craig enveloping his body an instant relaxant, sleep claiming him as viciously and as suddenly as anxiety before it. Craig only called him baby in his most vulnerable; Tweek would sacrifice all of his mental health just to hear it on repeat in the softest voice he'd ever heard Craig use.

Somewhere in dreamland, reality leaked in in the most pleasant of ways: Craig's singing. Tweek was not awake to know it, but it was real, Craig running his fingers through Tweek's hair, reciting the same line from  _In The Dark I See_  over and over:  _Truth be told, sometimes it's only you, truth be told, sometimes it's only you, truth be told, sometimes it's only you._


	3. Chapter Two: From Crazy to Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from giants by bear hands. sorry for late and short chapter :( i can't make any promises but i'll try to be better.

By the time next Wednesday came Tweek had decided he would not be going back to Dr. Anderson. He told nobody but Craig, who had just paused the episode of _How it's Made_ they were watching to prepare for their presumed departure.

"Do you think that's a good idea, Tweek?" Craig asked, his hand still on the laptop lid, staring at the bug-eyed and quivering Tweek.

Tweek had announced his intentions to quit therapy several times before. He detested every aspect of it, it was hurting him more than it was helping him, and he believed this fervently. Every time he'd been dragged back to Dr. Anderson, but this time he was _serious_. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth, trying to be as calm as possible.

Craig sighed. He laid back on the bed. His torso scrunched up in an appealing way, one that set Tweek further on edge, thinking of Dr. Anderson's words about sexual attraction or whatever. Tweek told himself it was an aesthetic attraction, told himself to pay attention. "Why don't you want to go to therapy."

"Dr. Anderson is a _fucking quack_!"

"No, Tweek, she's an accredited therapist."

Tweek started to sweat. Craig could be such an ass, his face as unreadable and placid as a calm lake on a summer day, his body unnaturally still. "Why can't you just _believe_ me?"

Craig looked at Tweek for a very long time and then blew air out his nose. Tweek could see him thinking with that analytical, calm, mathematician brain of his. Usually, Tweek loved Craig's brain, but now it was annoying him, the amount of time Craig was taking to respond. Looking at Craig when Tweek was this pissed was like looking at Craig in a funhouse mirror, everything distorted and twisted, unrecognizable."Can you explain why she's a quote-unquote fucking quack?"

Tweek considered it. He chipped at a piece of loose skin on his thumb. He sucked on his tongue. He knew what he had to say; he knew it would get Craig to believe him. He tried a different approach first. "She's been treating me for two years and I haven't gotten any better."

"You haven't gotten any worse."Craig knotted his fingers together on his lap. The gesture reminded Tweek of therapy, irritated him.

"Well, I don't want to live like this forever, Craig!"

"It requires work from you, too. It's not just the therapist."

Tweek glared at Craig, everything in his body suddenly on fire. "Are you talking about the coffee?"

"Yes."

"I can't fucking quit coffee! Not now!" Tweek tore at his hair. "Not with school, not with my parents, not with moving out so soon! Do you want me to go through withdrawal, huh? Do you _want_ to see that?" _Do you get off on it?_ Tweek almost asked, the fury within him mounting higher and higher, but he bit down on his tongue so hard it bled instead.

This made Craig leap forward and take Tweek into his arms. Tweek tore out of them, whimpering. Craig reached for the tissues he kept on his bedside table like every other teenage boy (except for Tweek, who rarely slept in his own bed anyway) and pried Tweek's mouth open, blotting at the cut on the Tweek's tongue. Tweek tried to say something but it was cut off by the mess in his mouth. Craig pulled the bloodied tissue out of Tweek's mouth and looked at him.

"Dr. Anderson said mean things about our relationship." Tweek hung his head down. He was tired, that temporary state of mania working him up, and he suddenly felt very small and very young, the anger draining from him.

"Oh." Craig let the tissue fall between them. "What, exactly?"

Tweek tried to remember the exact phrasing but couldn't; he had blocked it out. "It stunts my development," he said instead, spitting the words out, the last of his anger going out with a bang.

"Well, she's a fucking quack."

"That's what I said."

Craig smiled, picked up the tissue and tossed it in the trash, then leaned back down on the mass of pillows he kept in his bed. Once again his torso looked inviting; Tweek, tired, let the feeling wash over him and told himself it was love even as it went straight to his dick. "C'mere," Craig said, holding out an arm, and Tweek crawled into it, grateful that he wouldn't have to suffer the ordeal of driving to therapy, of sitting in Dr. Anderson's office, of all that stress. Laying with Craig as Craig pulled blankets over them and smoothed Tweek's hair, Tweek didn't even crave coffee.

"Thanks, man," Tweek mumbled into Craig's side. Craig smelled good; Tweek had given him an expensive bottle of cologne that he knew Craig liked and couldn't afford for his last birthday and that was what Tweek smelled now, alongside the general mustiness of their nest in Craig's bed.

"You should've just told me," Craig whispered.

Tweek was quiet. He didn't know how to respond to that.

They weren't actively doing anything, they were just laying in bed and breathing in synch, their hands moving idly and affectionately over each other, but Tweek was the least bored he'd ever been in his life. Eventually he asked Craig if he wanted to watch more _How it's Made_ but Craig was asleep, his fingers feathering on Tweek's arm, and Tweek only smiled and fell back, letting sleep come to him as well.

But like a bear crawling out of hibernation, Tweek couldn't live in this bliss with Craig forever. He of course spent the night, took a bath, jacked off, all with Craig, but early the next morning he was in his parents' shop and he was going to have to explain the fact that he no longer wanted to see Dr. Anderson. It scared him thoroughly and so he stole a pair of Craig's boxers for his own in preparation. Yet Tweek was a man of contradictions and as he approached his mother and father, sitting at a gummy plastic table and taking a brief break as the sun broke over the mountains and spilled its light into the store, he felt his will strengthen.  
"Mom, Dad," he said. He did not sit down and instead chose to stand. He towered over his petite mother; his father, not so much.

"Yes?" His father raised an eyebrow, a mug of coffee at his lips, a fucking caricature.

"I'm not going back to Dr. Anderson."

There was a moment of pause. His parents exchanged a look, both lowering their coffee mugs to the table, and then they looked to Tweek. "What?"

"She's not working," Tweek said. "I've been seeing for years and I haven't gotten better. I don't think this therapy thing is for me."

"But you haven't been getting _worse_." His mother's face pinched up; Tweek had seen this expression reflected on his own face in the mirror many times. The draw of the lips, the dip of the eyebrows, the confused worry.

"She's right," his father said. "There's no reason for you to quit, Tweek. This is keeping you under control."

Tweek fought back a strong surge of anger. "It doesn't matter if you support me or not. You can't drag me back there. I'm eighteen. And I'm not going."

"That's ridiculous," his mother said. "You're being ridiculous. This is why you need Dr. Anderson. You missed your appointment yesterday, didn't you?"

Tweek said nothing.

"This has got to be because of Craig," his father said, more to his mother than to Tweek. "I told you. It doesn't matter if they're gay. Craig is a bad influence."

"What a shame. Our son's own boyfriend."

"Not even caring about his mental health." His father shook his head and then, to Tweek, he said: "Tell us we're right."

"You're not right," Tweek said, no longer able to keep his temper at bay. He began to shake, his hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. "You don't even know me! Your own son! You don't care! Craig does know me, Craig does care, Craig does support me, and fuck you guys, I'm quitting therapy and there's nothing you can do about it."

With tears in his eyes Tweek ran from the store, his parents calling after him, and went to his car. His father followed him out; Tweek locked the doors and ignored him as he pulled out of the parking lot. It was fully daylight, bright and obnoxious, and tears poured down Tweek's face. He had a feeling he had just done something very bad, irreconcilably so, and the only thing he could think of was getting back to Craig.

He pounded on the door to Craig's house, unthinking, and it was not Craig that answered but Ruby, a toothbrush in her mouth. "What?" she asked, removing the toothbrush, toothpaste spittle flying at Tweek.

Tweek said nothing to her and pushed against her shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time. He pulled open the door to Craig's room and found him in the middle of getting dressed, pulling a t-shirt over his head, his back to Tweek, the knobs of his spine catching Tweek's immediate attention. They glowed in the dull light of Craig's room, alien-like.

"Tweek?" Craig asked, not even needing to look. Tweek's heavy breathing tended to give him away. "What are you doing here?"

"I told my parents I'm not going back to therapy and now they're gonna kill me!" Tweek screamed. He realized he was shaking feverishly and hugged his arms to his body in an attempt to stop.

Craig turned around and looked at him. Tweek continued on. "They think it's because of you! They don't understand me, Craig! They never have! I don't know what to do! We need to leave the country, they're gonna track me down, they're gonna fucking kill me, ah, I swear, ah-"

Craig approached Tweek and wrapped his arms around him. Tweek was still going. "Seriously, we both have passports, we need to go! They have enough money to hire a deep-web hitman, I swear! There'll be no trace! They'll burn our bones in hydrochloric acid!"

"We are not leaving the country," Craig said. "I'll keep you safe here, in my room."

"This is the first place they'll look!"

"I'll fight them off myselves as Feldspar, level 100 thief."

Tweek made a hollow noise that was maybe a laugh in one of its lives. "Everything is fucking-ruined! I need their money, Craig, we don't have any money, I can't get another job, I'm so fucked up, how are we going to afford our apartment-"

"Shh, shh." Craig lead Tweek back to his bed and laid him down. Tweek ranted on and on while Craig removed his shoes, then his socks, then his apron, his shirt and, lastly, his pants. "Those are my boxers."

"Yeah. Anyway! They're never going to talk to me again and they're going to send an assassin. And even if the assassin can't kill us then we're not going to have any money and we'll be on the streets! Ah-I've lost my relationship with them, Craig! They're no longer my parents and I'm not their son!"

Craig rolled one of his many blankets over Tweek's body and sat beside him. "Well, to minimize the chance of your death, we won't be going to school today."

" _Fuck_ no! You should hide my car, too. And yours!"

"I'll put Ruby on guard duty. I won't leave your side." Craig raised one of Tweek's hands to his lips, kissing it.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"I'm so fucking-fucked!" Tweek twitched violently. "I need coffee."

"Do you want to go to the kitchen?"

"No! The windows!"

"Alright."

Craig pulled his cell phone out and called somebody. Ruby, judging by the way he said, "Ruby, can you bring me some instant coffee, a mug and a coffee pot?"

That is how Tweek found himself shivering, withdrawal already wrecking him in combination with his incredible duress, while Craig lorded over a coffee pot plugged into the wall beside his desk. The smell and the warmth of it filled Craig's small room, wrapping Tweek in its haze, numbing him. His heartbeat gradually slowed. Craig went back and forth between Tweek and the coffee, kissing various parts of Tweek and smoothing his hair, until the coffee was done, and then presented Tweek with a huge, chipped ceramic mug. When Tweek burned his tongue slurping down the coffee, Craig kissed that, too.

There was nothing left in Tweek to process anything; senses finally dulled, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he woke up he saw Craig at his desk on his laptop. He seemed to be browsing Reddit, from what Tweek could see of the screen from his nest inside the covers. In his post-sleep daze Tweek did not immediately alert Craig but instead watched him. Craig had long fingers, a piano player's hands, and they moved elegantly over the keyboard, quick and astute. His posture was impeccable, his back straight, and he had once told Tweek that he held himself high on principle. He told Tweek that if you act like you shouldn't be fucked with then nobody would fuck with you. Craig's hair curled onto his thin, pale neck, little wisps, and the sight of it, of Craig without his hat and with his perfect posture, made Tweek want to cry.

Instead, he hissed, "Craig!"

Craig got up immediately, walking to Tweek. "You woke up?" he asked, getting into bed with him. Craig smelled like coffee and cologne. Like heaven.

"What time is it?" Tweek whispered.

"Almost lunch. I have a surprise for you."

Tweek's eyes went wide; Craig smiled. "What is it?"

"You'll see." Craig drew Tweek into his arms like one would bundle up blankets, or some clothes from the dryer. "Are you feeling better?"

"Fuck, man-ah! My parents! Shit!" Tweek wiggled around in Craig's grasp, but it was firm, and Tweek did not get far.

"They haven't found us yet," Craig said. "Let's watch some nature documentaries, yeah? Smoke a bowl?"

That was what they did until Craig's surprise showed up: three powdered donuts bought and brought from Dunkin' Donuts by Clyde and Token. Tweek sat up in bed, skinny chest exposed, devouring them, while Token sat in Craig's desk chair and Clyde stretched out on the floor. Craig laid down on his back across the foot of the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"School is lame as fuck," Clyde provided. He was still in his bulging winter coat and clunky winter shoes; Token had draped his cat across the back of his chair and deposited his boots downstairs."You guys are so smart, skipping all the time."

"We do not skip all the time," Craig offered. Tweek's mouth was full of donut.

"Clyde doesn't understand the value of an education," Token said. "But today was admittedly boring."

"You don't need an education in the marines," Clyde said. He pulled off a glove and sent it flying at Token; Token snatched it out of the air and laid it on Craig's desk.

Ignoring Clyde's comment,, Token said to Craig,, "Why is there a coffee pot in your room?"

"Why do you think?"

"Oh, right. Tweek."

"That's taking it too far, dude," Clyde said. The type that could never stay still, Clyde sat up, removing his other glove.

"Whatever. Thanks for the donuts."

"You're welcome," Token said, cordially.

"They're awesome," Tweek said, coming up for breath between his second and third donut. "Totally what I-ah! Needed."

"Hmm?" Token turned his attention to Tweek.

"He had a falling out with his parents," Craig explained, laying a hand on Tweek's knee.

"How unfortunate," Token said, sending Tweek a look of sympathy.

After Tweek finished his donuts, Clyde and Token tried to convince Craig and Tweek to go to the movies and see the new Star Wars to no avail. Craig and Tweek had already seen it, of course, in theaters and on Craig's laptop from a quality pirated version. But Tweek was too anxious to go outside, fearful of his parents tracking him down and punishing him, and so Token and Clyde left. Tweek could tell they were sort of annoyed and felt bad, but he couldn't bring himself to adjust his actions.

"It's fine, Tweek," Craig said. They were back in bed together, cold bodies warm under the covers. "But. You're going to have to face them eventually."

"Not now," Tweek moaned against Craig's bare chest.

"If not now, then when?" Craig whispered, massaging Tweek's back.

"Never?"

Craig sighed, shifting against Tweek.

With Tweek's situation getting critical, tonight called for another bath. Tweek stepped out of Craig's room gingerly, hugging his arms, terrified of the hallway's windows. Craig went in front of him, shutting all the blinds, and ushered Tweek inside the windowless bathroom with urgency. Tweek looked at himself in the mirror while Craig drew the bath, dropping a bath bomb they'd saved for the most dire of occasions into the water. Tweek looked a mess, dark circles under his eyes, his hair everywhere, but he generally looked like this always.

"We're ready," Craig announced after a few minutes of Tweek's staring at his own bloodshot eyes.

Tweek stepped out of his clothes and turned around to see Craig already in the water, leaning against the tub with his eyes closed, steam making his hair curl. Craig's bathtub, like his house in general, was small and sort of dingy, but it was okay because even though Craig was tall, Tweek was short, and they were both skinny. Besides, closeness had never been a problem for them. Tweek entered the bath and immediately hissed at the feeling of the warm water on his skin, moving his weight so that he could nestle against Craig, their legs entwining under the water.

Despite the nudity, their baths together were entirely nonsexual. Craig worked soap into Tweek's hair methodically and gently, his fingers digging into Tweek's scalp, raising goosebumps on Tweek's back. Tweek sipped from a mug of coffee while he leaned against Craig's chest, Craig's sudsy arms wrapped against Tweek's own. When the water grew cold, they let some out and filled the bath with more hot water, so that they could extend their time together. Their bath bomb was galaxy themed, glitter serving as stars, and Tweek watched the colors swirl together, watched the dim light catch the sparkle that stuck to their skin.

"I'm so tired," Craig mumbled, his mouth in Tweek's hair.

"Me too." Tweek groped around the bathtub rim for the wash cloth; when he found it he dipped it into the water and then soaped it up. He turned around, sitting cross-legged in the water, and started dragging the cloth over Craig's skin.

Craig put his hand on Tweek's wrist to stop him. "You don't have to do that," he said, his eyes lidded.

"I want to," Tweek said. "Ah. You do so much for me."

Craig made a noncommittal noise and leaned back. Tweek lathered Craig, avoiding his crotch, their one unspoken rule. The heat from Craigs skin and the bathwater was turning Tweek red, making him sweat, and he was afraid he'd somehow forgotten how to bathe a body. When he finished he collapsed, shaking, into Craig's arms.

"You did well," Craig said.

"Thank you." Tweek's eyes closed, his head on Craig's chest. "It was-a lot of pressure."

"Too much?"

"No."

Usually, Tweek would fall asleep around now, but today he did not. Instead he watched the colors of the bath drift on the surface through half-closed eyes, feeling Craig's heartbeat under his cheek. Craig did fall asleep, his breathing rhythmic and slow, calming. _If this was all I did_ , Tweek thought, _I would be okay_.

A little voice spoke up in the back of Tweek's brain: _you are in love with him_. In his calmed state, Tweek accepted it. His heart sped up a little bit, then slowed, because this feeling of love was as warm as the boy beneath him, the water surrounding him. Tweek, usually so cold, so frenzied, was comfortable, truly, for the first time in his life.

 _I can be in love with Craig and not be gay_ , he thought. He did not see it for the futile thought that it was.


	4. Chapter Three: I Will Hold You Close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from lonely world by the vaccines!! consider it foreshadowing :~)

"Tweek. You have to talk to them."

Tweek crossed his arms and screwed up his face at Craig. He wasn't sure what he was feeling—pissed off? Anxious? Uncomfortable? Something that didn't feel nice, by any means, his stomach upside-down and his heart hammering. As a result of this, he had no response for Craig besides a loud huff.

"I'm serious." Craig was sitting across from Tweek. Their knees were touching and they were both shirtless, their hair tussled with sleep. "You need to talk to your parents."

Tweek continued to say nothing, just sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and bit down.

"If for no other reason," Craig sighed. He seemed tired, bags under his eyes. "We need the money."

The mention of money caused Tweek to twitch violently, bile rising in his throat. It had always been a sensitive subject between himself and Craig. Tweek was a prince, Craig a pauper, and Craig was cagey about that, weird. And now here it was, staring them in the face: Tweek needed his family's money to support their nice apartment in Denver, their ambitions.

"I know we need the money!" Tweek said, after he recovered himself. "But they're so mad at me, Craig!"

"Shh, shh." Craig reached out a hand, depositing his thumb in the hollow of Tweek's clavicle. Craig had cold hands, but it was okay, Tweek perpetually overheated. "They're mad at you because they're concerned for you."

"That doesn't make sense!"

"I just mean that they want to help you."

"They don't _understand_." He put a hand over Craig's. "They don't understand this."

"So?" Craig looked into Tweek's eyes, serious, and Tweek swallowed involuntarily.

" _So_ ," Tweek said. "What if they don't give me the money because they don't like you and they say I have to break up with you?"

Craig sighed again, and once more Tweek saw how tired he was, the deep purple bags, the thinness of his face. Tweek felt immeasurable guilt at that moment, hating himself intensely for bringing this negativity into Craig's life. "Don't worry about hypotheticals," Craig said, after a pause. "It will do you no good."

"But—" Tweek started to protest.

" _But_ ," Craig said sharply, "it's better to do it now than put it off later and make yourself sick over it. Look. I'll drive you to your parents' house, and I'll wait in the car while you talk to them, okay? And you can wear my clothes."

Tweek crumbled to the pressure. He pulled on his favorite hoodie of Craig's, the NASA one that Craig wore religiously and as a result smelled deeply of him. It engulfed Tweek, hanging down to his thighs, and so he put on a pair of athletic leggings that Craig wore when he did yoga with Wendy, Stan and Token at the South Park Community Center. Tweek felt strangely feminine, which was not altogether bad, and protected.

They went to Dunkin' before going to Tweek's parents' house, even though it was way, way out of the way. Tweek got a large coffee and drank it like a baby nursing from its mother, then scarfed down three powdered donuts. Craig wiped the sugar from his lips with a napkin and Tweek bit his nails on the drive back, down to the pink part, down to the point where he was gnawing on raw skin.

"We're here," Craig said when he pulled up in front of the house. Tweek stared at it, shocked by how unfamiliar his own house felt. He realized that he had stopped thinking of his house as his home. When he got homesick, it was for Craig's room, for the glow-in-the-dark stars and the quiet hum of the fan, their blanket nests and perfect peace. Craig's bed was his bed. Craig's home was his home. This house in front of him held most of Tweek's possession and his family, but it was nothing more than that, a container. Tweek could smell his house's unique scent; he could not smell Craig's.

"You're stalling," Craig observed.

"I just, ah! I just realized. This isn't my home."

Craig gave him a strange look. "This is your house," he said. "32 West Street. Tweek's house."

"No, no, that's not what I meant." Tweek shook his head. "I mean—this isn't my _home._ My home is, ah—your home. You."

Craig's look of confusion softened. He seemed almost in pain, his face pinched, and he reached out a hand, wrapping it around Tweek's shoulder. "I know," he said, finally. "But those people in there are your parents, and they have money that we very much need."

"I know," Tweek parroted.

"Do you want me to sing to you?"

Tweek considered it, then shook his head, pulling Craig's hand off his shoulder. "No," he said, chewing on his lip, since his nails were done for. "I think I'm good."

"I believe in you," Craig intoned. "You get your shit together when you need to."

"And I need to."

"Now quit stalling and get out there, champ." Craig smiled.

Tweek left the car on shaking legs, but by the time he got to his front door they had stopped, and he felt thoroughly supported with his feet encased in a pair of Craig's star-patterned socks. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was the evening, dinner time, and the coffee shop closed from six to seven and a half to accommodate this. He went to the living room first and did not find his parents there, then tried the dining room.

They were there, sitting at the table and eating dinner. Sauerkraut; the smell of it turned Tweek's stomach. Still he held his ground, hovering over the chair where he sat when he bothered to eat dinner with his parents.

"Tweek!" his mother said as soon as she saw him, putting down her fork. "We've missed you. Are you alright? Where have you been? You missed work today! You could have texted us."

"I'm fine. I was at Craig's."

"Oh." His father entered the conversation. "Of course."

Tweek bit back a nasty comment. "So, ah. You guys aren't mad at me?"

His parents exchanged a look. "We aren't mad, no," his mother said, turning back towards him and speaking gently. "But your father and I, we decided that some things need to change around here."

"Like how you're never around here," his father offered.

"I'm eighteen," Tweek reminded them.

"So you turn eighteen and you think it's okay to turn your back on your family?" His father gave him a very pointed look; Tweek could practically taste his disappointment.

Through clenched teeth, Tweek said, "I still work at the shop."

"That's about all you do," his mother said. "You don't even talk to us! I feel like I don't know anything about you.'

"Because you don't!" Tweek screamed this, then bit his tongue, tying to swallow words he's already said. "And when I try to tell you, you don't listen!"

"Is this about therapy?" his father interrupted.

"It's about therapy, it's about Craig, it's about me," Tweek said. He grabbed the back of the chair, squeezing it so hard his veins popped up on the back of his hands. "I can make decisions for myself! I'm not crazy!"

"Nobody said you were crazy, Tweek," his mother said gently. "We just don't want you to quit therapy, and we want you to start spending more time with your father and me."

Tweek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew what Craig would want him to do: Craig would want him to concede. To return to therapy and to spend more time with his parents, if for no other reason than to secure the money they needed for their apartment. For their future, together. It sounded so simple, Craig telling him this in his head. He remembered his clothes, hugging himself.

"O _kay_ ," Tweek said. "I'll go back to therapy."

"To Dr. Anderson?" his mother asked.

"Can I please try somebody else?" he turned on the puppy dog eyes, feeling pathetic and small, though that might just be because of the hoodie. His mother looked at his father. They had this way of looking at each other that was as if they were reading minds, coming to agreements telepathically. Tweek recognized it because he and Craig could do the same thing.

"Alright," his father said this time. "We'll check our insurance and find somebody else."

"Thank you."

"Sit down, eat dinner. I'll make you a plate." It wasn't really so much a question as a command as his mother stood up, hurrying to the kitchen.

"Craig's outside!" Tweek called after her.

"Invite him in, too," his father said. "We really do like him."

Tweek went back outside, feeling significantly better, and to Craig's car. Craig was leaning back in his seat and listening to something on his phone, earbuds in and eyes closed. Tweek drank in the sight for a moment and then tapped on the driver side's window.

"How'd it go?" Craig asked, pulling the earbuds out. Tweek heard a short snippet of a song, though not enough to make out what it was.

"Really good," Tweek said. His teeth were chattering, for some reason. Caffeine withdrawals, probably. "They don't hate me. Or you. And they want you to eat dinner with us."

"Sweet." Craig opened the car door, Tweek stepping out of the way, and put an arm around Tweek's shoulders when he left. He had to crouch down to do so. "What's for dinner?"

"Sauerkraut," Tweek said, knowing fully well that he would not be eating it. He would ask his parents for coffee and a leftover pastry, offering Craig his portion of sauerkraut. Craig loved the stuff, for whatever reason, and Tweek would make him brush his teeth afterwards.

Because they ate dinner with them, Tweek's parents were okay with Tweek returning to Craig's house. Baby steps, Tweek thought, sinking down into the passenger seat, into Craig's hoodie. He was tired and his bones felt creaky, like his joints needed lube. This feeling translated into yet another bath, though this one had no bath bomb and Craig was out of bubbles, leaving them to stare at their scrawny legs in the water.

"You have like, no leg hair," Craig observed, touching one of Tweek's legs.

"You don't either," Tweek pinched Craig's leg in retaliation.

"Yeah, but mine is dark, so it looks like I have more. You're so…smooth."  
Tweek made a guttural noise of protest, drawing his knees to his chest. Water slopped over the sides of the tub and onto the floor, which already had significant water damage, needed replacing. Craig laughed and drew Tweek close; they were sitting across from each other and now their foreheads and noses were touching, their faces wet and cold.

"Jerk," Tweek whispered.

"I'm _your_ jerk," Craig said.

They held eye contact, their mouths so close they were sharing the same humid breath. Between the closeness and the leg hair conversation, Tweek was feeling some sort of way, craving a deeper, more physical contact. The little voice that liked to play god inside his brain reminded him that he was in love with Craig, sure, but he wasn't actually gay, and the stirring in the pit of his stomach meant nothing, so he better ignore it. Craig, meanwhile, had a weird look in his gray eyes, lidded and dreamy. A stormy look, almost, except maybe Tweek just thought that because that was the color of Craig's eyes, the color of the clouds that drew up together right before rain. Most people found that threatening; Tweek loved it, loved the way it got all windy and cold and quiet before a storm, the shadowy blanket the clouds dropped on the world. That feeling, that mystical feeling, was so well represented in Craig's eyes at the moment it was alarming. Tweek wanted to dive in. Wanted to stand in a field with wind billowing his shirt and his hair and goosebumps prickling his hairless limbs forever. If he were to move just a fraction of a fraction of a centimeter—

The moment came to an immediate stop when Ruby knocked at the door and screamed, "Get out! I started my period! I need the bathroom!"

"Ugh! Gross!" Tweek jumped up from the bathroom and grabbed for a towel.

Towels around their waist and their hair dripping freezing droplets down their necks, Craig and Tweek fled the bathroom. Craig and Ruby exchanged middle fingers on the way out, but Tweek knew the both of them well enough to recognize that as a mottled sign of affection. Once in Craig's bedroom, they dropped their towels and dried their hair, long immune to each other's nudity.

"It's Friday," Craig said, tossing his towel in his laundry bin and wandering over to his dresser.

"Yeah?" Tweek asked. His hair was longer than Craig's, unruly, and required more attentive drying.

Craig flung a shirt backwards for Tweek, then selected one for himself. "S _o_ ," he said, drawing out the o, "Token and Clyde want to hang out."

"Oh." Tweek shed the towel, grabbed the shirt. He realized that it was not Craig's but his, some relic from a few weeks ago. "Okay."

Token and Clyde wanted to go to the Mexican restaurant in North Park and then get drunk at Clyde's, his father away for work, it turned out. Tweek was down for that, though he didn't care too much for Mexican food. The moment from the bath was long forgotten as they got into Craig's car and started the drive; they would meet Token and Clyde there. Craig and Tweek shared a joint on the drive there, listening to music from middle school and singing along.

Tweek ordered tortilla chips and salsa at the restaurant and held Craig's hand on the table. "Gross," Clyde said, looking at their hands, and Craig flipped him off.

"Your homophobia is disturbing," Token said, swirling a straw inside of his Manzana Verde Mundet.

"It's not because they're _gay_ , it's because they're my _friends_."

"Clyde. We've been dating for ten years." This was Craig in his trademark deadpan, one thumb moving over the back of Tweek's hand. "Get over it."

"Seriously," Token agreed.

"Whatever!" Clyde threw up his hands, tilting back in his seat.

The rest of their time at the restaurant passed without incident. The food was good, according to the others; Tweek just grazed on his chips, drinking cup after cup of Mexican coffee and accepting small bites of Craig's refried beans now and then, Craig feeding them to him and Clyde turning his nose up in disgust. Token poured something from a flask into his soda at some point, then passed the flask to Craig, who declined. Tweek appreciated it, silently; he did not want to make the drive back to Clyde's house. Token paid for their meal, calling it his treat, and Tweek in turn did not protest as a favor to Craig.

Clyde's house made Tweek anxious—they had a picture of Clyde's dead mother above the fireplace, a vase of fresh, fragrant flowers beneath that. For that reason, perhaps, there was an air of death and of sadness about the place. It was not a particularly clean house, either. There were dirty clothes on the floor of the bathroom and dust on unused surfaces. A clear and depressing bachelor's pad. With enough cheap beer and Craig's hand to hold, these feelings of unease were soon blotted out, and Tweek found himself on the floor in Clyde's living room playing Mario Kart Double Dash on an old GameCube against Clyde while Token and Craig placed bets on them.

"Five bucks says that Tweek is gonna win," Craig said, sticking the bill down the back of Tweek's shirt as if he were a stripper. Tweek was playing with baby Mario and baby Luigi in a stroller, kept laughing at the way they'd bounce along the track.

"Twenty on Clyde." Token kept his money to himself. Clyde had Bowser and Wario, a heavier cart and terrible hand-eye coordination, especially when drunk.

Tweek won, coming in fifth while Clyde was disqualified for taking too long after he got stuck on a turn; Craig collected the money with a shit-eating grin, ruffling Tweek's hair. "That's my boyfriend," he slurred. Tweek and Craig were both in the pleasant state of intoxication where things were fun and slow and there was no threat of a hangover the next day. They never went hard when they got drunk and high, had never been sick from it, and Tweek took comfort in that, as if it were a testament to Craig's strength as both a person and a caretaker. His thoughts were unclear and when he closed his eyes he saw Mario Kart characters driving down a track, heard some mixture of that music and the cheery music from the Mexican restaurant. He swayed into Craig's legs, rubbing his cheek on the denim of his jeans, content.

They crashed at Clyde's. Clyde went under first, sleepy from overeating and all the beer, lumbering up to his room and bidding them a goodnight. Token was next, fading off in the middle of _Fight Club,_ snoring softly on the couch with a remote in one hand and half a beer in the other. Craig and Tweek looked at each other, both wide awake.

"Want to go out and watch the stars?" Craig asked, sticking a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Clyde's backyard.

"Fuck yeah," Tweek said, already standing.

They took blankets and pillows from Clyde's house and made a nest in the dewy grass of the backyard, right in the middle of it. They wore their coats and boots; it was really too cold to be out at two in the morning, but they didn't care, huddling together for warmth and feeling invincible from what little drunkenness they had left. The stars were predictably beautiful and, used to them, Tweek stared at Craig instead.

"I love your nose," Tweek said. Craig's nose was crooked and long, looking as if it'd been broken at some point even though it never had.

"Thanks," Craig said, not taking his eyes from the stars. "Yours is nice, too."

"And your eyes."

"Back at you."

"And your…I don't know…heart." Tweek put a gloved hand over Craig's chest. There were too many layers of clothes and blankets to feel a heartbeat.

They were sobering up, the weed worn off, the beer getting there. But Tweek told himself he was still drunk and high as he leaned over and connected his lips with Craig, kissing him properly, all deep and movement and effort and love. Tweek told himself that Craig was still drunk and high, too, as he started kissing back. And though they were eighteen, and though they'd been dating for a decade, they trembled like twelve-year-olds as they poked their tongues into each other's mouth, tasting tortilla chips and beer and the sharp South Park air in each other.

"Tweek," Craig whispered, tilting his chin so Tweek would stop kissing him. It had been what felt like hours and what was really probably about twenty minutes of kissing, their gloved hands on each other's chests, their legs tangled in each other's. "We're not gay."

"I know," Tweek mumbled, flushing red, afraid that Craig was about to expose some secret part of Tweek and ridicule him for it.

"But, ah." Craig closed his eyes. His mouth was puffy and red, slick with Tweek's spit, and Tweek very much wanted to continue sucking on his lips. "That was nice. Come here."

Craig reached for Tweek, pulling him close, planting his lips on Tweek's forehead. Tweek had no idea what that meant, had no idea what was happening, and soon Craig was asleep, his breath causing Tweek's hair to flutter. Tweek's heart was beating as hard as it ever had. He was shaking, actually, and he wasn't cold, he was hot as Hell, as in the literal place, feeling like he was burning into something withered and blackened. He felt as if he would soon burn out of existence. He was sad and exhilarated and his lips were stinging. His body begged him for more. The voice in his head screamed at him for being silly.

 _I am drunk and I will not remember this in the morning,_ Tweek told himself.

But he wasn't drunk and he did remember it in the morning. He woke up cold and confused, wondering why he was in full winter gear and his back was damp. He sat up with squinted eyes to see Craig beside him and it all came rushing back: his parents, the bath with Craig, that heated moment, Ruby's interruption, going to the restaurant with Token and Clyde, going to Clyde's house, getting drunk, getting sober, making out, falling asleep. Tweek groaned deeply and laid back down, hating himself deeply for how comfortable it felt to be in Craig's arms, how he might have just fucked everything over by letting his guard down.

Because he did not want to wake Craig, Tweek pulled out his phone. He saw it was early, eight in the morning, and there was no way Clyde nor Token were about to get up any time soon. He checked Facebook, then Twitter, and all he found out was that it seemed that Kenny had held a party last night that the cops got called on and Henrietta Biggle had broken up with her boyfriend, a guy in college Tweek had never heard of. While he was investigating further into this, bored out of his mind and in need of caffeine, his phone sung with a text from his mother:

_Found a new therapist. Come by later. Love you!_

The sound woke Craig; Tweek's heart flooded with love at the sight of a sleepy Craig, his hat pulled down over his ears and his long eyelashes blinking sleep out of his crusty eyes. "Hey," Craig said, and he surprised Tweek by pulling him down by the collar of his coat for a kiss. A deep kiss, like the ones from last night, Craig's terrible morning breath evident.

"Holy shit!" Tweek said against Craig's mouth, freaking out.

"What?" Craig laughed.

"You—"

"Token's in the kitchen," Craig said by explanation. Tweek turned around; Token was indeed in the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal and waving at them through the sliding glass door. He gave them a thumbs up, pantomimed some sort of sex motion, and then took himself his bowl of cereal out of sight.

"Oh," Tweek said.

Then Craig leaned in, whispering into Tweek's ear. "Not that it matters." He moved his mouth down, leaving a trail of kisses from Tweek's ear to his mouth.

Tweek swallowed and flushed again, down to his toes, certain that he was actually on fire in this moment. He opened his mouth to say something once Craig took his own away, but Craig plucked his phone from his fingers, reading the text from Tweek's mom.

"Cool," Craig said. "Should we go now?"

"I—I don't know!" Tweek cradled his head in his hands. "It's so much pressure, man."

Craig pulled Tweek's hands away from his head, looked into his eyes. "Hey," he said. "It's okay. We don't have to."

Tweek did not know what to say, could not say anything, and kept quiet. Craig was missing the point and, for the first time in his life, Craig's touch was more disconcerting than comforting. Tweek wanted to run the fuck away. His heart was so loud in his ears he was sure Craig could hear it. Though Craig was looking at him with the same expression he'd been looking at him for the last ten years, and though he was holding Tweek's hands gently, and though they'd just slept under the stars, Tweek had no idea what they were, no idea where they were going, and it scared the absolute ever-loving _fuck_ out of him.


	5. Chapter Four: And We Take Jokes Way Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "for him." by troye sivan. warning: things get kind of porny in this chapter! if you're not into that, back out now! but don't worry, we're far from over. regardless, i really like this chapter, haha.

The first time they kissed had been at Craig's thirteenth birthday party. Tweek had been teasing him for weeks, saying that he would kiss him in front of all of their friends right before Craig blew out the candles. He hadn't meant it at all, though he had felt weird whenever he suggested it, like he was taking the joke too far. Like he might just be serious.

Tweek spent the night before Craig's party. It was being hosted at Craig's house, as usual, and it would be depressing, with cheap decorations and off-brand junk food. At thirteen, Craig had wizened up to his parents' poverty, but he was still having a hard time accepting it, still wishing for things they could never afford. As a result of this he was wide awake, laying on his back and looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars.

"I think I want you to kiss me tomorrow," he had announced. Tweek, who had been very close to sleep with his head on Craig's chest, jerked awake.

"What?" Tweek screeched, too loud. Craig put a hand over his mouth to shush him.

"I said, I think I want you to kiss me tomorrow. In front of our friends. It's time." Craig said the last part gravely, in a way that sort of soothed Tweek, because it didn't sound like he was looking forward to the kiss.

Craig took his hand away from Tweek's mouth and Tweek immediately whispered shouted, "That's so much pressure!" Tweek had been getting better with his anxiety since he'd switched therapists, but he wasn't cured, and the thought of kissing Craig in front of Clyde, Token, Stan, Kyle, Wendy, all of them, jumpstarted his heart and made his palms sweaty. "What if I do it wrong!"

"Then I'll kiss you," Craig said. "And all you have to do is stand there."

"And it doesn't mean anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Just for show?"

"Just for show."

"And you're totally cool with it?"

"Totally cool."

"Okay."

So that was how their first kiss went down, with Tweek standing beside Craig at the head of his dining room table, between the singing of _Happy Birthday_ and Craig blowing out his candles. Tweek closed his eyes, thinking that was what he should do, and he heard somebody whistle—Clyde, maybe? Tweek had felt hot all over, flushed to his toes. It wasn't arousing, but it was electrifying, in a weird way.

A weird way that Tweek had always kept secret, because when Craig pulled back and Tweek looked in his eyes, Tweek saw nothing. Nothing to indicate that Craig, too, felt electrified. Just the flat gray of his eyes, before he turned to his cake and blew out the thirteen candles on his homemade cake.

Tweek had buried that memory deep inside of him. Not the kiss; the kiss was unforgettable, for it was their shared first, and it set a precedent. No, Tweek buried the way it made him feel that first time, and the way it made him feel every time afterwards, until kissing became so routine that the touch of their lips was equivalent to a hug or holding hands for Tweek. But coming off of their make out session under the stars—literally, as they got up and walked away—the memory of that precious first kiss came back full-force, causing him to sway against Craig.

"You alright?" Craig asked.

"I don't know!"

A week passed and Craig made no indication that something had shifted in his and Tweek's relationship, just like after his thirteenth birthday party. To Tweek, it felt like he was lost in an endless mudslide, slippery and dirty and always tumbling down. When they kissed, it made his head spin, his palms sweaty. When they weren't together, Tweek noticed Craig's absence like he would notice the absence of a limb. Tweek tried to chalk it up to a flu. Tweek tried to bury the feelings deep inside of him, but they refused, little monsters in his midsection that raised their tiny fists and yelled throughout his body.

It did not help when it came time for his first appointment with the new therapist, on a Friday afternoon right after Tweek came home from school. This one was a man in West Park who operated out of a house that had been converted to a catch-all of mental health services. Though the house was no doubt more attractive than his old therapist's office, with immaculate sliding and a wide front porch, Tweek found himself missing the dim little collection of office buildings with their weak railing. Something about the house was intimidating, and Tweek was already on edge from the drive, as well from the absence of Craig. As usual when he switched therapists, his parents were with him. The fact that Tweek wished Craig was here instead was making him anxious, too. In fact, Tweek just felt like an anxious, nervous mess, ready to melt into a puddle at a moment's notice.

The waiting room consisted of a tall potted plant, bland wall decorations, a circular rug with frayed edges on a carpeted floor and two armchairs artfully pointed away from their respective corners. Tweek chose to stand, pacing back and forth in about three feet worth of space, his teeth chattering.

"Tweek, calm down," his mother said. She was reading something on her phone, occasionally dragging her finger down the screen. His father was sitting with his back straight, his hands folded in his lap.

Tweek said nothing in response.

Five minutes later, Tweek was called into the therapist's office. His parents rose to go with him. The therapist held a hand up and said, "I believe the boy is eighteen?"

"He is," Tweek's father said.

"Then it's not standard for the parents to accompany him on his first appointment." Already, Tweek liked this man. "It's—Tweek's decision." His eyebrows rose a little when he read Tweek's name off the paper on the clipboard he held, a hint of surprise in his voice, like there always was. "Do you want your parents with you, Tweek?"

Tweek looked at his parents. He'd never been to a first therapy appointment without them; as a child, he'd wanted them there, wanted their familiar comfort. Now, he felt quite the opposite. "I'm—ah, sorry! Mom and Dad! But, no."

"Alright then," the therapist said. "You guys can wait out here. I'm Dr. Watt, by the way. You can call me Sam, if you'd prefer."

Tweek preferred Dr. Watt, though he doubted he would use his name in session. He generally avoided using authority figures' names around them. They walked through a narrow hallway and Dr. Watt opened the door for Tweek. His therapy room was nice, a soft black couch and wooden desk dominating the room. Tweek sat on the couch, Dr. Watt at the desk. Over the desk was a window, through which Tweek could see mountains.

"So, Tweek," Dr. Watt said. "Tell me about yourself."

"The doctors say I've got—ah! Anxiety. And paranoia," Tweek added, flinching. "Sometimes I hallucinate. But I'm on medicine for that! I'm addicted to coffee."

"I didn't mean your medical history," Dr. Watt said. He wore glasses and had a kind, round face; an older man, he was plump and white-haired. "I meant yourself. What are you like? What do you like?"

"That's so much pressure!"

"Start with just one thing."

"I'm a senior at South Park High school."

"That's good. Now, what's one thing you like?"

"Architecture," Tweek said. "Ah—art, in general."

"You see, things aren't so overwhelming when you look at them one-by-one."

So, slowly, Tweek divulged more information about himself. He discussed his studies, his plans for his future. He discussed that he didn't like working at his parents' shop. He discussed that he didn't like driving. He discussed that he found watching YouTube videos of people painting (Bob Ross included) incredibly calming. Then it came time to discuss Craig.

"How long have you two been together?" Dr. Watt asked, smiling. Dr. Watt did not react with repressed shock, like the other therapists had, when Tweek mentioned he was in a relationship with another boy.

"Eight years."

"Are you sexually active?"

"No."

This is where the shock came. Dr. Watt took his glasses off and rubbed them on his shirt. "Are you or Craig asexual?"

"No."

Dr. Watt furrowed his brows. "That's unusual," he said.

"It started as a way to get money from people," Tweek said. "We faked it. We're still faking it. But I love him!"

"Are you _in_ love with him, Tweek?"

Something about Dr. Watt made Tweek want to confess. Tweek wasn't raised religiously, but Craig was; Craig went to Catholic mass every Sunday until they were fourteen, a confirmed member of the church who could make his own decisions about religion, and his parents let him stay home. Craig had told Tweek about confession, about sitting in a booth and professing your sin to a priest, about being cleared of it afterwards. That's what Tweek felt like, now—that if he professed the sinful thoughts he'd been having about Craig, his soul would feel lighter and he'd be clean and pure. "I think I am," Tweek said, tentatively, shaking. "We kiss. And sleep in the same bed a lot. Sometimes he sings to me. We take baths together." He started to go red, thinking about the kiss they'd shared a week ago, how they jacked off back-to-back on the regular.

"It sounds to me," Dr. Watt said kindly, "that you're no longer faking your relationship. Do you know if Craig feels the same way?"

Tweek shook his head. "I'm sure he doesn't!" he said. "It doesn't matter!"

"This is a conversation I suggest you might have with him at some point," Dr. Watt said.

They moved on after that, Tweek reluctant to discuss any further, Dr. Watt seeming to sense that. When his hour was up, he told his parents that it went well, that he liked Dr. Watt, that he wanted to continue therapy with him. Next session, he promised he would bring his parents in; Dr. Watt had suggested some light family therapy might help, assured Tweek that his parents did love him, but were probably unsure of how to deal with his severe anxiety. Dr. Watt told him that it was okay to be addicted to caffeine, at least for now, and in the summer perhaps they could work on it. Tweek liked Dr. Watt the most out of any therapist thus far.

Craig was waiting at Tweek's house when Tweek arrived home; Tweek had texted him, eager to see Craig and relax into him after this day. Tweek's parents acquiesced to Tweek leaving their car and heading for Craig's. Aware of their parents watching them, Tweek leaned forward and kissed Craig as a greeting; he shivered a little bit, feeling it in his toes.

"You okay?" Craig asked, their faces inches apart, his head cocked.

"Need coffee," Tweek said.

They went to Dunkin's and got coffee for the both of them, then back to Craig's house. Ruby was with Karen McCormick and another girl from their grade, watching a movie on the couch, and they stared at Craig and Tweek while they walked towards the stairs. Craig flicked them off.

"Ruby told me Karen thinks I'm cute," Craig said, laughing, once they were in his room, doors closed.

"No fucking way," Tweek said. The idea of Craig being cute was laughable to Tweek. Craig's beauty was just that—beauty, of the classical sort, gaunt and grim and heavy on Tweek's heart.

"Yeah, I guess she got into anime or something, and she's really into yaoi," Craig kept his voice low, his sentence devolving into chuckles, and Tweek was losing it, too. Without thinking they both pulled their shirts off, getting into bed.

"God," Tweek said. He was cold, suddenly. Craig pulled the duvet over them and Tweek rolled his pants down while they talked. "That's so funny."

"I know, right? I think we should mess with her. Like, walk downstairs shirtless with our hair all fucked up, or something."

"Yeah," Tweek said, though he no intention of getting out of bed at the moment. He burrowed into Craig. "Therapy was good," he said, speaking into the skin of Craig's shoulder.

"That's good." Craig started rubbing Tweek's back. "Wish I could've gone."

"It was okay. I like this therapist a lot."

"Mmm." Craig's eyes were closed. He snaked a knee between Tweek's legs. For the first time, Tweek allowed himself to be cognizant of the way that made him feel: safe, warm, a little hard. So he pulled back and studied Craig's beautiful face, the shapely eyebrows, the long eyelashes, the full mouth.

"Craig?" Tweek asked, his voice small.

"Yeah?"

"May I touch your penis?"

"What?" Craig's eyes burst open. Tweek was fully prepared to pass it off as a joke, the same way he was back when he was teasing Craig about kissing him all those years ago, but Craig's eyes were filled with something foggy and focused on a point beyond Tweek. Something that told Tweek that maybe Craig hadn't been joking, too.

"I, uh." Tweek blushed hard, straight to his dick. That rare confidence that came to him in major moments was building up, a speech preparing himself. "I was thinking. Like. It's got to feel better when somebody else does it, right? Isn't it weird that we haven't tried it?"

"That's gay," Craig said, but they were close enough that Tweek could feel Craig starting to get hard, too. Tweek's heart was beating against his chest as if were having a panic attack, but it felt so fucking good, pumping blood downwards.

"Maybe we're gay," Tweek whispered. Craig said nothing; just touched his mouth to Tweek's, moved his leg so that the weight of Tweek's cost rested on his knee and cupped a hand around the back of Tweek's head. He scratched Tweek's scalp, sent shivers down every possible river of Tweek's body, making Tweek curl his toes because he felt he'd float off in pleasure if he didn't.

They kissed for a few minutes, gradually moving closer under the covers until their dicks rubbed against one another through their boxer shorts, and then Tweek moved his head back and asked, his lips stinging and eyes watering with the thought, "So. Can I?"

"Shit," Craig said. He rolled on his back, his eyes closed. "I feel like I'm gonna die."

Tweek had no idea what that meant; he froze.

Craig cracked an eye open. "Tweek," he said. "Get the fuck over here."

Tweek figured that if he was going to do this, he might as well go all out, and so he pulled the duvet down. He groaned when he saw the tent that had become of Craig's boxers, the wet spot that had formed at the top. Tweek first gave it a squeeze through the material of Craig's boxers, which seemed too thin, and startled when Craig moaned. That was a sound Tweek was familiar with, always taken aback by the high pitch of Craig's moan in comparison to the low pitch of his voice. Perhaps to calm him down, Craig said, "It's alright, baby," and Tweek's heart fucking broke.

Tweek had, of course, seen Craig's cock before, had seen it hard, even. But he had never knowingly seen it hard for _him_. Tweek felt as if he'd forgotten how to jerk somebody off, despite being a lifelong expert by way of masturbation, and instead lightly drew his fingers over it, feeling the dimensions for the first time. He was overcome with the desire to take it into his mouth and suck at it for comfort, but thoroughly scared by this prospect, resigned, by now, to just feel it. Being tall, Craig had a proportionality large dick, though it was not a monster by any means. It was perhaps on the thin side, but Tweek had small hands and scrawny fingers that seemed dwarfed in comparison.

"Tweek," Craig said, almost scolding. Tweek looked at him, shocked and baffled to remember that this was _Craig_ he was touching so intimately. "I'm gonna—you gottta—fuck—"

"Ah," Tweek said, and he took Craig's cock in his hands fully and firmly. He sat up and straddled Craig's lap, one hand on Craig, the other in his own mouth, biting down on his knuckles to keep himself from screaming. Tweek was feeling on the edge of orgasm from this alone, feeling thoroughly wrecked, and then Craig said, "Let me see yours," and without waiting for Tweek to reply, snagged a finger in Tweek's boxers. Tweek nodded; Craig pulled Tweek's boxers down, took Tweek's cock in his own; they pumped each other, and it was only a few moments until they were both coming, tears streaming down Tweek's face and collecting in Craig's eyes.

Exhausted, Tweek collapsed onto Craig.

"You did good, baby," Craig said. He seemed to wipe his hand off on his sheets, which had seen plenty of abuse from them already, and entangled his hands in Tweek's hair, resuming the scratching. Tweek's leg kicked like a dog's. "Real good." He kissed Tweek's face.

"Felt so good," Tweek said, because that was the only thing he was thinking, stuck on a loop in his brain. "Love you."

"Love you too." Craig sighed.

They dozed off, sleeping like thinly. Tweek was amazed, seeing stars. When they woke up, they separated and sat on the bed, naked and in front of each other. Craig put a finger to his mouth and stood up, walking to his door and pressing an ear against it.

"Ruby's friends are still here," he said.

"Yeah?"

"So," Craig said, a shit-eating grin forming on his face, "follow my lead."

They put fresh boxers on, Tweek taking a pair of Craig's, and stood in front of each other, threading their hands through each other's hair. They were giggling madly, stopping intermittently to peck at each other's lips. Tweek was getting hard again, trying to think of the least sexy things possible to calm himself down. When they looked suitably fucked they left Craig's room, holding hands down the stairs.

It was worth it when they saw the look on Karen McCormick's face. Ruby seemed to know at once what was happening; that look of understanding Tweek had seen before passed between her and Craig. The other friend was as struck as Karen, her mouth hanging open. Craig and Tweek made their way to the kitchen, grabbed cans of lemonade and went back to Craig's room, where they promptly exploded into laughter.

Everything seemed so simple, so right, drinking lemonade under the light of glow-in-the-dark stars, under the comforter with Craig, reaching out to touch each other, hook a finger in a collarbone, cup a cheek in a hand. Nothing had been vocalized; nothing had been changed; but Tweek was astonished, as if he'd heard the word of God whispering into his ear, his eyes wide. There was no craving for caffeine. There was no shaking. There was only Craig, there was only the thrum of the desk fan in the background, there was only the tartness of lemonade sticking to their tongues as they sucked on each other's. Throughout the day, and the night, they would jack each other off as if they'd invented it, constantly and thoroughly impressed with this newfound ability.

Before falling asleep that night, Craig already dozed off beside him from their last orgasm, Tweek reflected on the events that brought him to this situation today. Dr. Anderson; the fight with his parents; Dr. Watt. Who knew everything could be as simple as touching dicks and tongues? As lying in each other's arms and whispering about nothing at all? As pranking and laughing and loving? Who cared if it was gay? Why did Tweek ever care if it was gay? It was so good, the best thing ever. Everything seemed clear. Everything seemed bright. Tweek fell asleep with a smile on his face and his cock raw from being coaxed to orgasm so many times in such a short span.


	6. Chapter Five: The World's Just Spinning a Little Too Fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time, huh? school got crazy last year and i couldn't handle it well, then my laptop broke, and then i spent all summer going on vacations, and then school started up again and i couldn't handle it well, etc. things are more stable now. here's hoping to more stable updates. 
> 
> title's from "let's be still" by the head and the heart, which is the song that craig sings at the end. there's also a reference to another song in here--see if you can find it!

In small, individual lurches, their relationship had progressed until this point. Tweek felt that he was in a cartoon car running out of gas, eternally sputtering along the road, his final destination elusive and possibly to be unrealized. In the week between his first orgasm at Craig's hands and his next therapy appointment, Tweek realized that this had been true for his shared history with Craig: behind the walls they put up to the public, their milestones were delayed and hesitant, taking years to progress from one stage to another. The exception came in the preceding weeks, where they were suddenly too close together, going too fast.

Of course, Tweek did not voice this to Craig. It helped that his racing mind was quieted so long as he was around Craig, even more so when Craig touched him, and in this week it seemed that Tweek spent more time with Craig touching him than not. Even at school it was constant: one of Craig's arms slung around Tweek as Tweek napped in study hall and Craig did their homework with the other hand; Craig's hand on Tweek's knee as they drove to Dunkin' for lunch, and even as they ate in Craig's car; Craig hovering, constantly in the hallways of both the school and Tweek's mind. It went unnoticed by the rest of their peers, even by Clyde and Token, who had long ago written Craig and Tweek off _as that gay couple_ and subsequently became blind to the romance of their interactions.

The most worrying part of it all was that Craig, as usual, seemed unaffected. So it worked in reverse: away from Craig, Tweek was the most nervous he could remember being in years. Driving was almost impossible. He felt like he had a clawed hand clamped around his jaw at all times. He drank so much caffeine that his urine was dark and smelled disgusting, like what was leftover in an untouched and uncleaned pot of coffee. He barely ate and he lived on bananas and applesauce, the rare doughnut. Even the hallucinations seemed to be coming back, hazy figures haunting the corners of his visions, never there when he turned his head. Several times he was tempted to take twice his dosage of medication. Several times his hands shook as he raised the pills to his mouth, running away from the bottle as soon as he was done.

Come Friday he was thrilled about therapy. He had told Craig the night before that his parents would be driving him this time; Tweek had said it was because they'd be doing some "light family therapy" in Dr. Watt's words. But Tweek was a much better liar than he let on, even—or perhaps _especially_ —when deep in the throes of an episode, or a break, or whatever the hell this might be, he had no intentions of letting his parents into this session. His psyche was so shattered, he couldn't let them see it, lest the constant threat of hospitalization be realized.

He kept expecting to experience instant relief, either when settling into the backseat of his father's car, or seeing Dr. Watt's practice, or seeing Dr. Watt himself, but it never came. By the time he sat down on Dr. Watt's couch, he had bitten his nails to the point they were bleeding. He didn't even notice it until Dr. Watt pointed it out.

"Do you frequently do that when you're anxious?" Dr. Watt asked. He had passed Tweek a box of tissues to suppress the bleeding, reminding Tweek of Craig. Of all the episodes he had had in Craig's eyes, and all the times Craig had helped him. Tweek bit down on his nails for a final time, hard, before applying the tissue.

Tweek nodded.

"So you must be feeling particularly anxious right now."

Tweek nodded again.

"To the point of being nonverbal?" Dr. Watt sounded concerned.

"Ah!" Tweek squeaked. The tissue on his sore fingernails stung, and the pain sort of brought him down. "No—I can try! My jaw really hurts though; I feel like I might puh-puke!"

"There's a wastebasket to the side of the couch if you need it, but first I'd like to try a breathing exercise to calm you down so we can talk."

The breathing exercise was simple: eyes closed, deep breath, count to three, exhale. It took five minutes until Tweek finally started to feel the panic subside. He threw the tissue into the wastebasket Dr. Watt had pointed out, then sunk into the couch, feeling as if he might fall asleep. Dr. Watt wrote something down on his legal pad, then said, "Alright. How long have you been feeling this anxious?"

"All _week_ ," Tweek groaned. "I'm having—an episode!"

"That's the term, yes. Can you describe what an episode entails for you?"

"Anxiety, paranoia, hallucinations." Tweek repeated the words that had been thrown at him for all his life. "I think I'm gonna die, or that somebody's gonna kill me, and I see things. Things that are gonna kill me! But they're out of the corner of my eyes, ah! And when I turn my head—they're never _really_ there."

"You said you were on medication for the hallucinations. Is it not working?"

"Apparently not!" Tweek raised his fingers to his mouth. Dr. Watt looked at this, then reached behind him, getting something off his desk. It was a ball like you might win out of a claw machine, covered in spikes and soft to the squeeze. He handed it to Tweek.

"Something to keep your hands occupied," Dr. Watt explained. "What you're doing with your nails is called _stimming_ , and it's something you see in people with high anxiety, like you. Stimming itself is perfectly fine and normal, but not when it makes you bleed like that. I recommend you try things like stress balls, small stuffed animals, and other things, until you find a non-harmful alternative to biting your nails."

"Oh-okay," Tweek said. He squeezed the ball in his hands, picked at the spike. It did seem to help.

` They sat in silence for a few moments, Tweek worrying the ball, Dr. Watt staring at his legal pad and making the occasional note. He seemed to circle something at some point. Then he looked at the clock and spoke:

"I can tell there's something on your mind, Tweek. Perhaps it would help for you to talk about it?"

"It's—ah! Personal." Tweek felt his face heat up. He stared at the ball in his lap. "But I guess all therapy is personal, right?"

"That's right." Dr. Watt seemed tentative, for the first time in their sessions. "You don't need to tell me anything. But if you do, I can help you."

"Right." Tweek's face was hot, and getting hotter, but at least he didn't feel like he was going to throw up or pass out. "It's about Craig."

"Mmmhmm."

"We've…" Tweek was still staring at the ball in his lap. "We've done some stuff recently. Like. Normal relationship things?"

"As in dates?" Dr. Watt asked.

"No, we already went on…dates…I guess. I don't like to leave the house much! Too much pressure!"

"Then what do you mean, Tweek?"

Tweek didn't respond. He felt his face to be as red as an apple, feeling flushed to the soles of his feet. Dr. Watt's mouth quirked; he seemed to realize what Tweek meant, and wrote something else down on the legal pad.

"Do you mean _sexual_ things, Tweek?"

Unable to speak and thoroughly mortified, Tweek nodded.

"And how did that go?"

"I liked it! Craig did too, I think! I don't know! I can't tell. His eyes get so—it's like—I don't know! He's so hard to read sometimes. When he gets like that. And I started it, but he didn't say no! He said yes! Consent is important." Tweek couldn't believe he was saying these things, thinking back to that terrible meeting in his elementary school's principal's room, talking about consent and touching penises. In retrospect, that was weird of an adult to talk to him about at age ten, but it hadn't done any lasting damage, so whatever. If only he had known then where he would be now, laying everything out in the open like this for everybody to see, to laugh at. Tears of frustration started to prick at his eyes, but Dr. Watt wasn't laughing.

"Communication is very important in any relationship, Tweek. I don't know Craig; I can't tell you what he thinks. From what you've said, I think it's clear that you two are dedicated to one another, and though it seems to be a good relationship for you to have, there are certain unhealthy aspects. Can you guess what that might be?"

"Our lack of communication?" Tweek didn't think they didn't communicate, but then again, he was having trouble reading Craig's mind where he never had before. So much trouble he was talking about sexual experiences with a therapist who he was seeing for only the second time.

"Well, yes." Dr. Watt put his pen down and crossed his legs. "Quite frankly, I've never heard of a relationship quite like this between two non-asexual teenage boys. I think opening up the channels about your true desire for one another would benefit you. Would you mind telling me how your relationship got to be this way?"

So Tweek did, figuring that if he'd already embarrassed himself he might as well go all-in. He started with when they were ten; Dr. Watt recorded something about how he'd been able to pull off that amazing stunt by accusing Craig of cheating on him. He explained the money angle, but there was something more to that—they genuinely wanted to be together. That Craig calmed Tweek down, and Tweek brought out the caring side in Craig instead of his usual deadpan apathy. "Normal prepubescent attraction, though showing acute intelligence with the extortion," Dr. Watt mumbled, writing this down, and Tweek was pretty sure he wasn't actually supposed to respond to that. Next was the kiss at age thirteen, and how Craig had responded the same way. "And then we didn't do anything until just now," Tweek said. "We would kiss in front of other people, but—ah! Nothing like what we just did!"

"I see." Dr. Watt set aside his legal pad. "Well, Tweek. Eight years is a long time not to know exactly what kind of relationship you're in."

"But I _did_ ," Tweek protested. "Until just now."

"I think you normalized your attraction to each other through routine," Dr. Watt said. He laced his fingers together and leaned forward. Tweek felt invaded and leaned back into the couch; Dr. Watt sat up. "You said you were excited when you kissed for the first time, but the feeling faded. You'd be amazed at what the mind can do to repress things, Tweek. But something about these past few weeks has made the repression stop working. Do you want me to tell you why I think that is?"

Tweek nodded. He was overwhelmed, and suddenly very tired.

"You're graduating soon. You're moving in with Craig. Your brain has realized that it's now or never. And if you want my professional opinion, I think you need to talk to Craig about that."

Tweek sighed. "If only things were that simple! He could—dump me! And that's too much pressure!" He hadn't used the phrase in years, but now it seemed like there was pressure coming at him from every angle, just like the figures looming in his vision. The pressure felt real, corporeal, a wreath wrapped around his head.

"Well, Tweek. I can tell that you're capable of more than you think, or perhaps what others think. You're strong-willed. You will find it in yourself to have this conversation—I can work to build your confidence up."

"Honestly," Tweek said, his eyes lidded, "I just want to go to sleep."

"It's been a lot. How about we end the session here? I'll reduce the fee."

"Okay," Tweek said. He was hazy, thinking of Craig, of Craig's nice nest of a bed and his skinny, cool arms around Tweek's worn body.

"And next time we can try the family therapy."

"Alright."

Compliant, Tweek left the therapist's office. He dumped himself into the backseat of his parents' car and immediately fell into a dreamless, heavy sleep. When he awoke at his house his mouth tasted terrible and his limbs felt more like logs. He wanted to be carried like a child; his father was probably capable of it, as short and skinny as Tweek was, but it was out of the question at his age. So he instead awoke to his father prodding his shoulder. Tweek leaned against him as they walked to the house.

"Are we still having Craig over for dinner?" his mother asked when they were inside, Tweek shrugging off his jacket—actually taken from Craig when Craig outgrew it a few years ago—and hanging it up beside the door.

"Yeah," Tweek said. "I'll call him."

"Alright, honey."

Tweek's mother and father went to the kitchen. The sounds of pots and pans and doors opening and closing irritated Tweek so he retreated upstairs, phone in hand. When he got to his bedroom—it always amazed him how little connection he feels to this space—he called Craig. Craig's contact name was just a bunch of heart and star emojis, his picture from last Halloween, when he went as an astronaut and Tweek as Tinkerbell (they may have been high while making those costume decisions.) He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey," Craig said.

"I'm back at therapy and you can come over for dinner now!" It all poured out. Tweek was relatively terrible at talking on the phone. The good part was that Craig was, too. "I'll be in my room! Too loud downstairs!"

"Alright. Love you."

"Love you."

Though it was sort of lame, Tweek read over the texts he'd shared with Craig until Craig arrived. Their texts were mostly functional, saying when Craig would pick Tweek up, or when Tweek would be at Craig's house, or sorting out specific plans. But on the rare occasions they weren't together, they were pretty sappy— _it sucks to be here without you. This vacation is lame._ Things like that. Tweek wiped at his eyes when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Hey," Craig said, again, when he got to Tweek's room.

"H-hey," Tweek said. He plugged his phone in on the bedside table, reaching over.

"What's up?" Craig sat beside Tweek. No pretenses, they sat close, sides and thighs touching. Despite himself, Tweek leant into Craig.

"I want to be an absorbable substance," Tweek murmured. "I want to melt into things. You, specifically, right now."

Craig laughed softly, kissing Tweek's hair. It was soft, and probably didn't smell as bad as it usually did; they had bathed together last night and Craig had washed it thoroughly. "Was therapy good?"

"Yeah. Lots of work. Said I'm stressed because of graduation and stuff. Gave me a stress ball."

"Makes sense." Craig wrapped another arm around Tweek, pulling him in so Tweek's face was against Craig's chest. He was wearing a t-shirt styled to look like it was older than it was, a faded image of a rocket ship on the front. Sometimes Craig was a parody of himself. Sometimes Tweek found it to be the most comforting thing in the world.

Not daring to try anything too extreme while Tweek's mother prepared dinner downstairs, they stayed like that, Craig running his hands through Tweek's hair. He seemed to be trying to detangle the knots that had already formed since the bath. They only separated when Tweek's mother called to them that dinner was ready.

Dinner was simple, hamburgers and French fries. Tweek's stomach still tender, he ate only the French fries, plain and unsalted. Craig had two hamburgers, piled with onions, lettuce, and ketchup. Tweek recoiled at the sight, scrunching his nose up at the thought of kissing Craig later; again, he would make him brush his teeth.

Conversation started out pleasant enough. They talked about school, how the coffee shop was doing. Tweek managed to keep his head above water, not feeling like he was bobbing dangerously on the waves. His parents were cordial to Craig, Craig cordial to them; until his mother put her silverware across her plate and asked,

"How was therapy today, Tweek?"

"Guh-good," Tweek stammered. He knew what was coming, and it came in the form of his father:

"What was so important about today that you couldn't bring us in for the family session?"

Things stilled around the dinner table for maybe half a minute. Then:

"No disrespect, Mr. Tweak, but isn't that personal?" Craig glared at Tweek's father so intensely Tweek thought he might as well be shooting lasers.

"We're just concerned for Tweek's health," Tweek's father said, returning the glare.

"Please don't fight!" Tweek sunk into his chair, moving his foot to find Craig's under the table. He nudged Craig's shin harder than he should.

"There's something called confidentiality," Craig said. "Especially now that Tweek's eighteen. He doesn't have to tell you anything."

"We know that," his mother said. "We're just concerned. Aren't you?"

"Tweek already told me about therapy."

"Oh." Tweek's father gave Tweek a look that said something along the lines of _we talked about this, not this again._ Tweek made a sort of grunting noise and gripped the edge of the table.

"It's _my_ therapy," Tweek said. "Not yours! We can do family therapy next week. I have to make myself a priority!" That was an old expression from three therapists ago; it had stuck.

Because nobody seemed like they _really_ wanted to fight about Tweek's therapy over hamburgers and French fries, they left it at that. The rest of dinner was a little tense, but it ended soon. Tweek left with Craig, happy to be gone from at least one of the many, many sources of stress in his life. Even if he was running straight into the arms of another.

They passed Ruby on the way to Craig's room, eating a T.V. dinner in front of the actual T.V., watching some Netflix show (the Tuckers mooched off of Karen's friends' accounts) Tweek didn't recognize. "Oh, hey," Ruby said, unceremoniously flipping off Craig when he walked in front of the T.V., leading Tweek by the hand. "Karen will _not_ shut up about you guys."

"Fuck her," Craig said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, I _wish._ Can you guys like, take nudes together? So I can show them to her? No dicks though. That's gross. Use the eggplant emoji. That's still pretty gay. Especially if you stick your tongues out."

"Fuck _you_ , too." And like clockwork, Craig flipped Ruby off.

"Do you guys even _have_ Snapchat?" Ruby called as they walked up, Craig's finger still raised and pointing towards her.

Once in Craig's room, Tweek stripped off his jacket—he was still wearing Craig's old one—shirt and jeans, diving for Craig's bed. He bundled the blankets against his face, grateful for them and the deep smell that lived within them. Craig came over to him and touched his back, lightly. Tweek's skin prickled.

"You didn't have therapy with your parents today," Craig said, which was at such contrast with his actions that Tweek felt immensely confused for a second.

Tweek rolled over and sat up. "No, I didn't," he said, slowly. "We already talked about that?"

"No, we didn't."

"Oh." Tweek remembered; he had not told Craig that until it came out at dinner. His heart picked up.

"You lied to me." Craig crossed his arms.

"No, I didn't! We had more to talk about than I thought _._ I just—didn't have time! _" But that's another lie, Tweek. He's going to catch you in them eventually. When did you start lying to Craig? When I was ten, and I said I wasn't gay._ "Holy—holy shit, Craig!" Tweek tore at his hair, turning away from Craig. Tears of frustration started pouring down his eyes, hi body racked by sobs. And the worst part: the one thing Tweek needed was the one thing that could make this all worse—Craig's touch. "Things have just been so _tough_ recently!"

"Shh, baby." And there it was, Craig's piano player hands on Tweek's shoulder, wrapping around with those impossibly long fingers, digging into his collarbones. He brought Tweek's face towards his chest, just like he had in Tweek's bedroom, the picture of the rocket ship on the shirt filling Tweek's sight. And then he started fucking _singing_ , except it wasn't a song from Tweek's mixtape, it was one he had never heard before: "So just for a moment, just for one moment, just for a moment, let's be still."

Tweek was stilled by this, though he was still crying. Craig lifted him up—though they were both thin boys, Craig had the height advantage, and Tweek had caught him doing push-ups in the morning before everybody else woke up—and started to kiss him. He laid Tweek down on the blankets so gentle it broke Tweek's heart, and then he started kissing him again, undressing him as he went. Tweek allowed it; Tweek _wanted_ it. Wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Craig unbuttoned Tweek's jeans, a knee between Tweek's crotch and one off the side of the bed. He slid them down, humming on the way. Tweek's skinny, weirdly hairless thighs trembled. Craig pulled Tweek's jeans off his legs, then his boxers, and then Tweek was naked and Craig was lifting himself up, taking off his shirt. He left his jeans on; he lowered his head down to Tweek's crotch, bringing his other leg to the bed, looking up at Tweek. He was so handsome, Tweek thought. The only word that could run through his mind, tears still streaked on his face, no longer crying: _handsome handsome handsome._ Swept hair, gray eyes. _Handsome handsome handsome._

"Can I?" Craig asked. Tweek could feel the warmth of his breath on his crotch. The only parts of Craig that were ever warm: his mouth and his cock. Tweek wanted both, all at once.

Tweek nodded, making a pathetic noise. He brought his fist to his mouth and bit down his scream when Craig took him into that hot mouth.

As usual, it wasn't long before Tweek came. It was the most spectacular orgasm of his life: already thoroughly emotionally wrecked, this took him over some breaking voice. Fireworks popped _violently_ behind his eyes, and his thrusts literally lifted him off the bed. He was dizzy, but in the best possible way. It was like a panic attack he had control over; it was pure adrenaline, pumping through him. He rode it as best as he could as Craig came up to kiss him, their tongues filthy in each other's mouth, and with Craig's hand over Tweek's Tweek stroked Craig off, letting his come splatter against his leg.

There were moments of the only sound being their heavy breathing. Tweek was feeling ready to float into sleep, but Craig pinched his thigh—not hard—and said, "Don't sleep yet. We need to talk."

"Hmm?" A sentence that would usually send bolts of anxiety through Tweek barely registered, he was so exhausted and spent.

"What's wrong, Tweek? This past week—"

"Shh." Tweek put a hand over Craig's mouth. "Doctor's helping me. It'll all be okay. Sleep, now."

"Alright." Craig didn't sound totally convinced. But he pulled Tweek into his arms, and away into sleep they went.

They didn't sleep until the morning. They woke up at around midnight and smoked a bowl, watching some documentary about the African ecosystem for a few hours. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was Tweek's neuroses in general, but the whole time he felt paranoia encroaching on him, tearing at his edges. He kept telling himself to be in the moment, to be with Craig. It wasn't working, and he didn't want Craig to know that, and he watched lions rip the meat from their kills with wide, terrified eyes.


	7. Chapter Six: It Is Real and Then It's Fake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey what's up it's been years
> 
> but this fic is actually FINISHED. i just have to edit all the chapters and then post them!!! so starting today, you can expect an update every SUNDAY and WEDNESDAY evening until all the chapters have been posted! you can follow my progress over at my tumblr, wargelf.tumblr.com, under the tag /tagged/litbotet.
> 
> anyway, specific stuff for this chapter: trigger warnings for emetophobia and a small violent scene (that occurs in tweek's head.) title from take care by beach house.

"Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Tweek jerked and looked at Token.

"You seem twitchy. More than usual." Token smirked; Craig glared at him; Tweek sunk deeper into his seat.

"I'm—ah—fine!" Tweek yelled.

"Okay then." Token raised his eyebrows.

Craig, Token, Clyde and Tweek were sitting at a picnic table near Stark's Pond, picking their way through a box of leftover pastries Tweek had funneled from Tweak Bros. As usual, Tweek had no interest in the pastries. He was instead picking at the skin on the sides of his thumbs under the table, one ankle crossed over one of Craig's. Craig was gutting a croissant, sticking the fluffy inner bread into his mouth, then eating the crust. Tweek stared at the croissant as Craig did this, vaguely disconcerted.

"Wendy sent me a picture of her prom dress," Token said. "So I can get a tie in the matching color."

"I still need to ask somebody." Clyde screwed his face up. He had muffin crumbs around his lips, which were plump, set in his face in an unappealing way. Tweek was gripped by a wave of nausea and grabbed onto the picnic table.

"Ask Annie. She doesn't have a date yet."

"I don't like her hair."

"Dude." Token looked at Clyde.

"What? I don't. It'll look bad in the pictures."

"Dude," Token repeated.

"I don't think Esther has a date, either," Craig offered. His hand had migrated to Tweek's back; their telepathy still there, Tweek was certain that Craig knew something was up, and that a conversation would be had about it later.

"Eh. Maybe." Clyde finally brushed the crumbs away from his mouth and leaned back, putting his boots up on the corner of the table. The pastries were mostly gone, consumed. "Maybe I'll just go STAG and pick up some lonely chick."

Token sighed. "Wendy and I aren't staying in a room together, since we're just going as friends. I'm staying with you, remember, Clyde?"

"So? You can sleep on the couch!"

"As if you're gonna get laid," Craig said plainly, almost gently.

"You guys are so lucky," Clyde said, gesturing between Craig and Tweek. "Guaranteed sex."

"It's not just about sex!" Tweek practically screamed, before Clyde could finish. He heard the first se sound in sex, and that was enough.

There was a pause, and then another look from Craig; Tweek shrunk. "We know," Token said. "But that's one of the good parts of being in a relationship, isn't it? You never have to want."

As if all Tweek didn't do was want—want to calm down, want to be normal, want to stop seeing shadow people out of the corner of his eyes, want to not take his pills, want to wean off his addiction, want Craig in all forms and in every way. Tweek sighed, a big, bone-rattling sigh, and leaned as far into Craig as possible. One of the perks of being as visibly mentally ill as Tweek was the ability to do shit like this without judgment.

"Leave him alone," Craig offered, much in the same tone as he'd told Clyde he wasn't going to get laid.

Token shrugged and turned back to Clyde. "Annie or Esther," he said. "Those are your choices."

"There's probably a reason they don't have dates yet," Clyde said. "They're probably crazy."

Token gave him a cease and desist look, but Craig waved it off. Tweek squeezed his arm. "You don't have a date yet, numbnuts," Token reminded him.

"Yeah but, like, guys have it harder than girls—girls get to choose, so all the hot guys get all the hot girls and regular guys like me are left with the ugly, crazy ones."

"I cannot even think where to begin to tell you how terrible and sexist that was." Token popped the lid of a Coke can, Tweek jumping as if a gun had just gone off. "Thank God I have to go on shift and escape this conversation. See you." He took a drink of Coke and then stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He exchanged a nod with Craig, saluted, and took off.

"Gotta run, too," Clyde said. "I'm going to look at tuxes with my Dad. Get my measurements, you know?"

"Alright. Bye." Craig flipped him off as a goodbye.

Now alone, every sound came to Tweek at once: birdsong, rustling leaves, the crinkling of plastic as Craig shut the pastry box. Tweek tried to find it in himself to move from Craig's shoulder but could not. He felt like a prey animal, the urge to not make any sudden movements.

Craig nudged him off his shoulder, though. "Let's walk around," he said.

"Don't want to," Tweek mumbled, attempting to lean back into Craig. Craig held up a hand, and instead Tweek's forehead landed straight into his palm.

"It's non-negotiable."

Tweek picked his head up. "You don't control me."

"You're right. I don't." Craig stared at him blankly. "If you don't want to walk, we don't have to walk. But I know you won't talk to me if we don't."

"You're right," Tweek said. "I want to go home and lay in bed. Forever."

"You can't do that."

"No shit."

Craig lifted his eyebrows. "You don't have to get mean," he said, softly. "I love you."

"Fine. I'll walk around the fucking lake." Tweek stood up and rubbed his hands together. It wasn't a cold day, but he started to shiver. He needed coffee, and was about to say that, when Craig stood up as well and took his hand.

"We'll go to Dunkin's after this, alright? But it's such a beautiful day. I want to share it with you."

"Don't guilt trip me," Tweek muttered as they walked towards the edge of the lake.

"I'm not guilt tripping you." Tweek looked at Craig; he was frowning. "I'm being honest. See? Look up at the birds. They've come back. Winter is over."

"They're just birds," Tweek said, still muttering.

Craig squeezed his hand. "You're being, like, really shitty."

"Sorry." Tweek didn't mean it, knowing that Craig knew that he didn't. The birds continued screaming; Tweek felt they were screaming at him, that they were messengers, omens, that they had come to warn him of his eventual reaping. They were dark smudges on an otherwise pleasant picture, and as usual Tweek couldn't see the forest for the trees.

Craig and Tweek walked slowly and in silence. If Tweek had been less shrouded in himself, he might have noticed that it was a beautiful day. Loose clouds hung in the sky, allowing the sun to wrap itself around Craig and Tweek, bringing them warmth like an old, comfortable blanket. The trees and flowers were verdant, lush with regrowth, and though ice still clung inside the woods, it was melting in small, steady rivers. The ice of the lake had passed, the water clear beneath it, the fish lifting off from their lake's floor slumbers. Sunlight hit the water's surface and turned it a color that could be called white but wasn't; so blinding that you could not look directly at it and instead how to rely on your peripheral vision to fill in the details. But Tweek did not see these things; all Tweek saw were smudges of shrieking birds and shadow people, becoming more and more defined, and his own interiority, splayed in front of him like a waking dream. He felt his way through it, unable to rely on his eyes, Craig's hand in Tweek's cool as well as close and distant all at once.

They made the loop with Tweek not even realizing it, never lifting his eyes from his feet while managing to never see his shoes. Craig was sighing beside him as he led Tweek to his car. "You're catatonic," he said. "You're a zombie."

"Am not," Tweek said, realizing that he was sitting in the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt in.

"We were supposed to talk, but you didn't respond to anything I said."

"You didn't say anything?" Tweek's eyes went wide. He couldn't—Craig had been talking? He'd heard none of that; in fact, he was pretty sure he'd stop feeling Craig's hand at some point. He'd certainly stop feeling himself. He looked down, trying to associate the jeans and sweater and sneakers before him with himself. He raised a hand, looked at the ripped skin on his thumbs, and flipped it over to look at the chapped back. Veins ran from fingers and upwards—they were his fingers, he knew this, but he didn't feel it.

Craig sighed again. He started the car and turned on the radio, soft music from his burned CDs filling them. Tweek had no idea what it was, couldn't place it. "Maybe you'll feel better some caffeine, yeah?" he asked Tweek, attempting a smile and reaching out to rub Tweek's leg.

"Maybe," Tweek agreed.

Craig tried to broaden his smile and leaned in to kiss Tweek, a chaste thing. Tweek felt the smallest flame, as if on a tea candle, light between them. He parted his lips, wanting to lap at the warmth, suck it down and live off it. Craig just shook his head and pulled back.

More quiet. Tweek started biting his nails, first the nail itself and then the skin surrounding it. Again, when he pulled his hands back to look at his skin, it was as if he was seeing somebody else's hands, gnarled and unrecognizable, tender to the touch. He saw Craig's eyes flicker to their side, heard a sympathetic, swallowed noise, watched Craig's Adam's apple bob. Tweek pulled his sleeves over his hands and balled them up, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his forehead on them.

He uncurled for his coffee, drinking it all in pretty much one go. He realized that he'd gotten so used to the taste that it was no longer pleasurable—perhaps he had made it so routine as he had made Craig. Perhaps he had made Craig into an addiction. Perhaps everybody was wrong, and he needed to separate from Craig.

He blanched at the thought. Cutting Craig off would be like cutting his limb off unprovoked. Taking a rusty saw to his arm. Running a dull blade back and forth, over and under, crunching and scraping at bone. Tears started to prick at his eyes; he sucked at his coffee incorrectly and started to choke.

Things happened quickly: Tweek coughed, hitting his own chest; he sprayed coffee all over Craig's dashboard from his mouth; he dropped his coffee on the floor of the car, the lid coming loose and spreading over his feet; Craig swerved the car off the road, pulling them to the shoulder of the highway. Then the radio was off, the only noise in the car Tweek hacking, and Craig was rubbing his back. Tweek tried to articulate that he was about to puke and failed; instead, he ripped open the car door and managed to just lean his head out, vomiting coffee and stomach acid onto the pitiful, sad brown grass on the side of the highway.

"Shit," he heard Craig saying behind him, feeling Craig's hands pulled Tweek's hair away from his face, Craig's stomach on Tweek's back. "Shit, shit."

Tweek coughed again, finishing up, and then he wiped his mouth with the back of his sweater—his own sweater, not Craig's—and pulled back into the car. The door still open, he fell into Craig's waiting arms.

"I'm sorry," Tweek mumbled.

"It's okay, shh." Craig smoothed Tweek's hair. He hadn't been completely successful at pulling back Tweek's hair; some of the strands around his face had been sickened. "What happened? Were you feeling sick?"

"I drank wrong," Tweek said. "I think…it was just from the coughing. Nothing in my stomach. I don't know."

"Tweek, this isn't normal." Craig pulled back to look at Tweek, then put a hand on his forehead, feeling for his temperature. "Oh, look at you, baby. You're a fucking mess."

"Yeah, I know."

"Can you close the car door?"

Tweek nodded, though his limbs felt weak, his stomach cramped. He pulled the car door shut. Craig found a half-drunk bottle of water in the backseat and gave it to Tweek. "Don't drink that," he said. "I don't know when it's from. Just rinse your hair and your mouth."

Tweek did as instructed, listlessly, spitting out the rolled-down window. His mouth tasted acidic, but it wasn't really any worse than usual. Craig took his own sweater off, a thin, cotton thing as luck would have it, and Tweek used it to swat at his face and his hair and then to try and clean up some of the coffee off the floorboard. It was hopeless, already soaked in and filling the car with its smell, and he took off his wet shoes and pulled his feet up into the seat. "I'll pay to have it cleaned," he said.

"I'll do it myself," Craig said. "I always do. It's fine. Let's just get you home. But first—here." He pulled an ice cube out of his own coffee and handed it to Tweek. "Suck on this."

Tweek pushed the ice cube into the pouch of his cheek while Craig turned the car back on and eased into traffic, already driving more quickly than usual.

Tweek fell into a deep sleep on the way back, much as he had in his father's car after therapy. This time, though, he did awake to being carried—Craig was cradling him in his arms like he might his bride. Tweek rolled his head into Craig's chest, trying to feel for his heartbeat with his cheek. Strange, Tweek thought—would he be Craig's bridegroom one day? He'd never considered anything else. Craig was always in the future, slotted in, even before Tweek had accepted their gayness. A wedding seemed a formality, lots of pressure, but maybe it would be nice to stand at an altar in front of just a few people. To listen to Craig say his vows. To wear a ring.

They seemed to pass by Ruby, because Tweek heard her say, "What's wrong? Is he dead? Are we burying the body? Did you kill him?'

"Fuck off, Rube," Craig said, softly.

"No, really." Tweek felt Ruby move towards them; Craig stopped walking. "Is he okay?"

"He just got sick," Craig said. "He'll be fine."

"Shouldn't he, like. Tell his parents?"

"Can you just shut up?" It was rare to hear malice from Craig when it came to his sister, but there it was: Craig sounded as acidic as Tweek's mouth felt. Though he sort of hated himself for it, Tweek smiled.

"Fine. Jesus." And Tweek heard Ruby walk off.

Tweek bounced with the motion of going up stairs, and then he felt himself being lowered onto the bed. He still felt like a bride, but instead of feeling like he was about to be ravaged, he felt already ravaged. He felt he had been hit by a truck. And then backed over again, and left on the side of the road like roadkill, waiting for the workers in the morning to come and brush him into their garbage bags.

"What do you want?" Craig asked, softly. Of course, Craig knew that Tweek had only been pretending to be asleep. "A bath? To brush your teeth? Something to eat. You should really eat something. Crackers, or soup."

"I just want—" Tweek sighed. "I want to be normal."

"Well, Tweek, I can't do that for you."

Tweek nodded. He knew that—didn't he?

"Look, I know you want to sleep, okay? But not yet. Let's go to the bathroom."

Tweek brushed his own teeth using the toothbrush he had at Craig's house. Ruby's was red; Craig's was blue; Craig's father was light blue; Craig's mother was pink; Tweek's was green. They all sat in an old, cleaned out jam jar on the sink, soaking in peroxide when not in use. The motion of rubbing his thumb over the bristle under the water calmed Tweek, the cool mint of the toothpaste on his tongue welcoming. Then he took his shirt off and bent over the tub on his knees while Craig washed his hair for him, feeling like he had when he'd gotten lice as a child and his mother put mayonnaise in his hair, Craig raking the comb through while it was still wet.

"Two out of three," Craig said, standing in front of Tweek in the bathroom and drying his hair for him. He, too, had removed shirt. Tweek stared at his chest, the word alabaster rolling around in his head.

"I'm really not hungry," Tweek said.

"Doesn't matter." Craig smiled, took the towel from Tweek's head and threw it into the laundry hamper.

Tweek sighed. He knew Craig was right, of course, on an intellectual level. But Tweek didn't want to give in—he didn't want to once more become the boneless mold that Craig would shape back into life again, as if he were Pygmalion and Tweek Galatea and their nebulous love Athena. It was the same old story, told again and again. Gods breathed life; Tweek freaked out and Craig cleaned him up afterwards.

They went down to the empty kitchen. Craig's mother was at work, his father on a hunting trip with his friends, Ruby probably in her room. Tweek sat on the counter while Craig rooted around in the pantry, emerging with a can of Campbell's soup. He dumped it into a pot and Tweek had to turn away, the sound and sight of thick soup sliding out of tin can making him queasy. Craig stirred a few times and walked over to Tweek, standing between his legs. They were basically at eye level; Craig's were as calm as Stark's Pond, though not as shiny. It was midday, the sun high, flowing through the windows and reaching all the shadowy spots of the kitchen. Craig's skin prickled with light. The thick smell of soup started to stir up the air in the kitchen.

Craig felt Tweek's forehead again and then pushed his damp hair off his forehead, leaning his own against it. Craig's breath smelled like coffee; his lips were dry. Tweek focused on the ridge of his nose, the visible pores.

"I'm concerned about you," Craig whispered. "More than usual."

"Hmm?" Tweek asked. First defense: play dumb.

"You know what I've mean. You've been all out of sorts this last month."

"It's just—you know. Graduation." Second defense: pass it off. "A lot of pressure. Things to think about."

"But you were excited," Craig said. He stepped forward and put his arms around Tweek. Still shirtless, their torsos didn't quite touch, Craig trying to capture Tweek's eyes. "We still have half an apartment to furnish, you know."

Tweek made a small noise in his throat. "But—it didn't feel real before. It felt like a Craig-and-Tweek fantasy. Now it feels real. I guess." Stick to the second defense. Safer than the third—the third is ugly.

"It didn't feel like a fantasy to me." Craig frowned. "It's always feels real. With you."

"I know." Tweek closed his eyes. His throat felt ruined from his previous vomiting, and now a lump of a different sort was starting to take shape.

"It feels real now, doesn't it?" Craig whispered, bumping his nose against Tweek's.

Tweek grabbed Craig's side, slipping his fingers just underneath the hem of Craig's jeans. He felt real, in that Tweek's fingers were sending the little signals that meant they were touching something back to Tweek's brain, and that their relay continued uninterrupted. Tweek focused on that and told himself that if his body could still sense these things, and his brain could make these intellectual connections, then maybe—maybe he could repair the things that were broken. Maybe.

"Have you been taking your meds?"

And Craig had done it—he had invoked the third defense. Tweek hated the laundry list people—meaning his parents and Craig—went through whenever he was feeling off. Resented it. As if he'd been boiled down to only these essential elements, and these essential elements were fucking bullshit. Medicine; keeping a strict sleep and exercise regimen; practicing mindfulness. Tweek yanked his hand out of Craig's jean and pushed him aside, leaping off the counter.

"Goddammit, Craig!" he pushed out between teeth knitted together. "I can't believe you just asked me that. You, Craig! You!"

Craig turned to face Tweek, now standing by the refrigerator, but he seemed otherwise frozen. His mouth was slightly open, his eyebrows just slightly pushed downwards—he was shocked, offended, Tweek knew. He seemed to be looking for something to say, so Tweek leaped into the silence and continued:

"You're supposed to know! You're supposed to know everything! And you're acting like you don't know shit!" Tweek hissed. He twitched, his head yanking to the side. "Look at me! I'm crazy, fucked up, addict Tweek! It doesn't matter if I take my medicine or not. It's who I am, Craig. Who do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're crazy or fucked up," Craig said. "If you were, it wouldn't matter, anyway. Because you're other things, too. You're brave, and you're funny, and—"

"Just shut up," Tweek spat. "God, Craig. Just shut up."

Craig sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

Tweek stared at him, trying to see Craig, or at least the Craig of a few months ago. It had been so much less complicated then—he would've just slipped into Craig's bed and been held by him, no worrying of anything more physical occurring, knowing that he was safe and loved within the strict lines they had drawn for themselves and their relationship. And now here Craig was, practically an alien, inhabiting a body Tweek felt he had unlearned by beginning to learn, a wall building behind his eyes so that Tweek could not look into them and read his thoughts. Same but different. Body snatchers. Little creatures coming in the night, rearranging and changing, so that Tweek no longer recognized the world he woke up in.

And then—Craig stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Tweek, and Tweek fell into him just as easily as he always had. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend.

So he closed his eyes. And he pretended.

Tweek ate the soup in bed, letting Craig feed him. They did not speak; they did nothing but this simple thing, Craig holding the bowl in his lap, lifting the spoon. Tweek opened his mouth, accepted it, let it slide down his throat and soothe its pains. They did this slowly, with precision, and when they were finished Craig set the bowl on the bedside table and they slid their bodies underneath the comforters. Just in their boxers, they held each other, and once again Tweek closed his eyes. Everything was the same, he tried to tell himself. Same boy, same bed, same smells, same skin. Same, same, same.

Craig kissed his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said. "Things have been rough. I know. I'm sorry."

Tweek kept his eyes closed and his mouth shut.


	8. Chapter Seven: You Gotta Believe Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from down by the water by the drums.
> 
> this chapter barely needed editing, by the way, and i'm really rather fond of it.

Tweek had put off family therapy, but the time had come. It was the only way to be able to go to therapy without Craig. Their fight, which wasn't much of a fight at all, had been forgiven but not forgotten. They were tenser than usual, hesitant, double-guessing what they were saying and doing together. It was an exquisite torture—as if God Himself had picked out it out, perfect. So now Tweek sat in Dr. Watt's waiting room, bouncing his knees up and down and rubbing his knuckles over his lips, waiting for the door to open. His parents were arranged as usual, his mother sitting neatly, his father standing with his hands behind his back.

Dr. Watt's door opened and the woman that had the appointment before Tweek left, holding a clutch purse and wearing high heels. Dr. Watt said, "just a minute" and Tweek listened to the woman's heels on the stairs until it was time to go in.  _Click-clack, click-clack_ , in time with his heart, as if it were rolling down the stairs itself.

The door opened again. "Sorry about that," Dr. Watt said, beckoning them inside.

"It's no problem," Tweek's father said. He unclasped his hands and led the way, Tweek going next and then his mother. Tweek took the edge of the couch against the wall, his mother sitting in the middle and his father ramrod straight on the other end.

Tweek looked around the room and tried to feel as if he were seeing it for the first time again, as his parents were. What did they think of the desk? The couch? The still life of a stack of books and an ink pot and quill hanging on the wall? A place already familiar to Tweek, and yet still foreign to his parents. Tweek looked at them through the corner of his eye but they looked the same as ever, immovable, expressionless, emotionless objects that had somehow brought him forth into this world.

"Good afternoon," Dr. Watt said, nodding at them all. "It's Richard and Rebecca, isn't it?"

"Yes," Tweek's father said.

"Alright. So, we're here today to discuss Tweek's progress, and perhaps work on reconciling some issues surrounding the family dynamic. Is there anything you would like to start with, Tweek?"

Tweek started in the sense that he jumped a bit in his seat, looking around. His parents were looking at him—once more, he could not read their expressions. It was as if somebody had pulled a nearly translucent gauze over his eyes. "No," he said. "What about you, Mom? Dad?"

To Dr. Watt, Tweek's father said, "Have you looked into his diagnoses?"

"There's no point in reinventing the wheel," Dr. Watt said, albeit kindly. "Tweek has severe anxiety, panic attacks, and paranoia."

"What about schizophrenia?"

Dr. Watt attempted to turn a reactionary sigh into a deep breath. Tweek wondered if his father noticed. "Please do not try to self-diagnose," he said. "Though it is possible for the more severe mental illnesses, such as schizophrenia, to manifest in children, it's more common for them to appear in early adulthood. It's critical that Tweek continues to pursue mental health treatment as he enters this age, as Tweek and I have already discussed." He looked at Tweek, prompting his parents to look at him as well; Tweek nodded quickly. "But, as his psychiatrist believes and as I and his past therapists believe, the paranoia and hallucinations seem to come from the anxiety and caffeine addiction. So, no. Mr. Tweak. I do not believe your son is schizophrenic."

Tweek's father nodded once, curt.

"But that's not why we're here today," Dr. Watt said. He leaned back in his chair. "Tweek and I have decided that it is best if you share your concerns about him and his mental health with me, so that I may assist you in providing more accurate support. That's what we would like to focus on."

"He thinks we don't support him?" Tweek's mother asked.

Dr. Watt once again looked at Tweek. When Tweek didn't say anything, he cleared his throat. Tweek started again and started to speak: "It's—I—sometimes you and Dad put too much pressure on me! And you don't  _listen_."

"Can you provide an example, Tweek?" Dr. Watt asked.

"Working at the shop!" Tweek spat out immediately, not realizing it was true until he said it. "I have to get up at  _four in the morning_! It's no wonder I'm addicted to caffeine!" He twitched at the reminder. He knew his parents wouldn't stop at Dunkin's on the way home, and felt the old, familiar wish that Craig were there, instead, even though Tweek had arranged the appointment so he would be absent.

"We need his help," Tweek's mother said to Dr. Watt. "We don't want to hire another employee, but it's too much work for just the two of us."

"Illegal child labor!" Tweek shouted.

"Well, no," Dr. Watt said, smiling at Tweek. "I don't think we could make a court case on that. Perhaps Tweek could work  _after_ school, instead of before?"

"The morning is our busiest time," Tweek's father said flatly. "We run a coffee shop."

"I understand," Dr. Watt said. "I am asking you to assess your priorities."

"Are you saying our son isn't our  _priority_?" Tweek's mother said, her voice shrill, her eyes blowing open.

Dr. Watt grimaced. "Let me rephrase," he said. "Tweek feels at this point that he is incapable of working a morning shift. I agree. Teenagers need a lot of sleep, and I understand that Tweek takes frequent naps, but that then affects the quality of sleep at night. A healthy sleep schedule is the first step to working on anxiety, and as recent research has been suggesting, the most important."

"We have an afternoon employee, but she has said before she can't come in in the morning. Besides, it's just for a few more months," Tweek's father sighed. "Until he moves out of the house."

"But—these months—they're important!" Tweek said. "And stressful! Pressure! Graduation! Why don't you guys  _listen_?"

"They are listening, Tweek," Dr. Watt said. "Let them."

"We'll do  _anything_  for you, Tweek, dear, but you have to understand that the store is part of your responsibilities," Tweek's mother said. She put a hand on Tweek's knee. Tweek looked at it as if she were about to attack him. "And—it's really the only time your father and I see you anymore," she added, more softly. To Dr. Watt she then said, "He doesn't even spend most nights at home."

"I understand he spends them with Craig?" Dr. Watt said.

"Yes. We like Craig," Tweek's father said, as he always did before he explained just why he didn't actually like Craig. "But I worry about their codependency. I mean, Jesus—they're only eighteen."

"I also understand that they're quite serious and committed," Dr. Watt said. "Distance can be healthy in relationships, and Tweek and I are working on ways for him to be able to calm himself down rather than rely on somebody else. But, well—as long as they love each other, and are good for and to each other, I don't see their relationship as a concern."

"I just want to  _see_ him more," Tweek's mother said. "My own son. My only child."

Tweek brought his thumb to his mouth, biting at the skin on the side. "I just—I sleep better with Craig! It's nice. I like his room. It feels more—right."

"We're not opposed to you sleeping at Craig's. We just want you to sleep at home, too." Tweek's mother said, now rubbing his knee. "We'd like to eat dinner with you. A few months and you'll be living hours away."

"Your mother's right, Tweek." Tweek's father looked at him. "We love you too, you know."

Something about the way he said that—perhaps because he broke his usual stern exterior, allowed emotion and warmth into his voice—hit Tweek in the gut. He sank into the couch. The gauze over his eyes thickened. He swore he could feel, if not hear, his heart, the blood in his veins rushing around, and he thought about the origins of the word  _hysteria_ —that doctors believed the womb detached itself and floated through the body, causing women to be upset. If only it were that easy, that physical, and Tweek could blame the opening hole in his chest on some part of his anatomy.

"I think we're missing an obvious solution, here," Dr. Watt said after a few ore beats of silence. "If Tweek wants to spend time with Craig, and you want him at home—why doesn't Craig spend more time at  _your_ house?"

Tweek took his thumb from where he'd been biting it and said, "He doesn't like it there!"

"What?" Tweek's mother cocked her head.

"It's just—he  _knows_ ," he explained, talking more to Dr. Watt than to his parents, for that was easier. "My house feels so—wrong. Impersonal! Craig's room is  _us_ , it feels  _real_. And you guys—" he looked at his parents, then— "you guys don't make him feel  _welcome_. But at his house, his parents are never around, it's just me and him and Ruby. And Ruby is great! She's funny."

"Tweek." His father said his name slowly, as if it were a word in a different language Tweek only somewhat understood. "We're your  _parents_."

"That doesn't mean anything," Tweek muttered, bringing his thumb back to his mouth and biting into the skin so hard that the taste of blood exploded into his mouth. He gagged instinctively, flashed back to the way Craig held his hair for him when he vomited, and brought his knees to his chest.

"Baby," Tweek's mother said, and Tweek resented her use of that word. It was  _wrong_. This whole thing was  _wrong_ , and Craig was  _right_ , but Craig wasn't here, and instead these—these  _scarecrow people_ were here.

"Tweek," Dr. Watt said. "Tweek, can you look at me?"

Tweek looked from his knees to Dr. Watt.

"Okay. You seem to be entering into a panic, correct?"

Tweek nodded.

"Please take your thumb from your mouth and put your feet on the floor. Okay, good. Now—what normally follows this?" he did not address this question at Tweek, but instead at his parents.

"Screaming, primarily," his father said dryly. "He's screamed so hard before that he lost his voice."

"That hasn't happened in years, though," Tweek's mother interjected. To Tweek, she said, "Right?"

Tweek nodded. That was true, at least. After some medication adjustments and the worst part of transitioning into puberty had passed, Tweek hadn't lost his voice. He remembered it, though. It'd been so bad that he'd stayed home from school a few times, and Craig had come to his house with his homework and the fancy Italian ice cups that he knew Tweek liked. Tweek's mother had made his favorite soup and Tweek had read comic books. After a convalescent period, he would return to school, in a strange Zenlike trance that would last but a few days until the next panic descended upon him. Thinking of this, Tweek sighed.

"Tweek and I have been discussing what to do in a situation like this, but I would like to hear how you've supported him in the past."

"I just try to be there for him." Tweek's mother voice sounded thick. "It's hard. He says things that don't make any sense. How do you respond to that?"

Tweek's father made a sort of half-noise and they paused, waiting for him to say something, but he just shook his head. His lips seemed more downturned than usual, his forehead wrinkled.

"You focus on the physical," Dr. Watt said. "The fact is, you can't stop the thoughts from coming. You can work so that they come less, and you can work on not acknowledging them, letting them pass. So—I understand that Tweek's panic symptoms include shaking, screaming and intense jaw clenching. He can relax physically, address the situation mentally, and move on." Dr. Watt smiled. "It sounds very easy in theory, but as we all know, it's difficult and takes work. Have past therapists brought this up to you?"

"They've focused on medication," Tweek's father said, sounding like himself again. "And I do believe the medication works."

"As always, it's medication and therapy together that works the best." Dr. Watt nodded. He looked towards Tweek. "How are you feeling?"

"Huh?" Tweek looked around. He did as Dr. Watt had just said, mentally assessed the situation: he felt lightheaded and weird but had to think to remember what had made him anxious—Craig. "Better," he said. "I think."

"Alright. Rebecca and Richard—do you feel that this has helped?"

Tweek's father said, "Yes," while Tweek's mother nodded.

"Then I think it's best that we end the family therapy here. If Tweek wishes, we can reconvene in a few weeks to check up. Tweek, how are you feeling about individual therapy?"

Tweek sighed. The clock told him that twenty minutes had passed, leaving the rest of the hour open. "Okay," he said. "Yeah."

Tweek danced around the subject of Craig in therapy, alluding to it, mentioning that it had remained the same. And it had remained the same—there was nothing Tweek had learned from their not-fight that he did not, on some level, already know. Dr. Watt once again pressed the issue of Tweek spending more time with his parents, to at least see how it went, telling Tweek that it sounded as if he'd built up a terrible obstacle in his mind that did not actually exist. And that, Tweek thought, was the story so far.

On the way home from therapy, Tweek texted Craig and asked him to meet him at Tweek's house. The car ride was silent, Tweek's parents not talking to him or each other, the radio turned off. Tweek watched the mountains roll by, the same sight repeating itself over and over, trying to make sense or a pattern and calm himself down. He felt like he was sinking when he should be swimming, that he was falling when he should be floating. He knew why—but he wished he didn't, and more than that he wished it wasn't true.

When they pulled into the driveway, Craig was leaning against the door of his car, arms crossed over his chest and staring at something in the distance. A light breeze picked up his hair, his jacket. As usual, Tweek felt the usual pang of longing—the unusual thing was that he recognized it for what it fully was. Physical desire, romantic desire,  _love_. He bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from screaming.

"He's here," his father announced.

"He is!" Tweek said.

"Did you expect anything else, Richard?" his mother sounded exasperated, and turned to look at Tweek.

"It's just—I—" Tweek unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door and scurried across the driveway to Craig. Craig went to hug him, but Tweek evaded him, aware of his parents' eyes on them.

"What's wrong?" Craig whispered.

"You're staying here tonight," Tweek said, looking at his parents. They had exited the car, were going inside the house.

"I can do that." Craig nodded, as if this were an insurmountable task. "But—why?"

"Tell you later," Tweek whispered, though his parents were out of earshot. He surged up and kissed Craig, suddenly overcome with the need, despite telling himself that he wouldn't do this. But the thing was—Craig kissed back. He pulled Tweek's bottom lip between his own, ran his tongue over it, and he wrapped his arms inside of Tweek's jacket, holding him close. It was so easy to fall, to just melt into Craig, and to let this happen. But—but—but—his stomach seized up and Tweek ripped himself away. A quick glance at Craig's face told Tweek all he needed to know: Craig's eyes were as still as ever.

They went inside the house. It was almost dinner time but not quite; his parents had closed the shop for the evening, as they did when they had to take Tweek to therapy. Tweek and Craig went upstairs to Tweek's sparse room. Craig sat on the bed while Tweek paced, hands behind his back. It occurred to Tweek that he probably looked like his father and he stopped in his tracks.

"Tweek?" Craig asked hesitantly.

"That's my name," Tweek responded. He had no idea where the words came from, could not remember forming them himself.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Tweek sighed, because it was the only other thing he could do beside open his mouth, start screaming and never stop. "Family therapy," he said.

"Did it not go well?"

Tweek shook his head.

"Come here." Craig opened his arms.

He did look inviting—of course he did. He was wearing a plain white shirt, black skinny jeans, his shoes were off and he was wearing gray socks with little red-and-blue spaceships on them. Tweek knew he would smell good, like fresh laundry. Tweek knew Craig would put his arms around him as if it were automatic, as if Craig's long arms were made to wrap Tweek's skinny body and never let go. Tweek knew Craig would sing to him, would call him baby, would kiss his hair, would lay him down and love him. Tweek knew this.

Tweek shook his head.

Craig exhaled through his nose. "Tell me about it, at least."

"It's just—ahh! They don't listen to the doctor! They don't listen to me! They say they want to spend time with me but they don't  _listen_!" Tweek tangled his hands in his hair and stretched, turning around in a 360. Every part of his body craved to just lower himself into his bed and slip under again, into that safe, fake security of his non-relationship, where things are easy and uncomplicated and—ultimately unfulfilling, obviously, if they've led him here. To look at Craig was to look at two things at once, a shimmering image flicking back and forth, the greatest temptation and torture.

"Tweek," Craig said again.

Tweek could feel it—what was  _it_ , he didn't know, just  _it_ —tearing him in two, splitting him evenly. Fire in his chest, in his throat, the scream swarming in his throat, a witch's cackle and a cauldron bubbling over. Fight or flight and there was nothing to fight and nowhere to flee. He tugged at his hair so hard it hurt his scalp and he yelped; the gauze over his eyes thickened, a cocoon, and he could not see anything—

And then, of course, like cool water over a sunburn he felt it, Craig's arms snaking around him, Craig's chin on the top of his head, their bodies slotting together so neatly. The gauze over Tweek's eyes lifted and he could see the white of Craig's shirt, and he acquiesced, he allowed Craig to step them backwards until they were on Craig's bed. Somehow—Tweek wasn't sure how—he was sitting up, nestled against Craig's chest, and Craig was pulling the comforter over them, smoothing Tweek's hair behind his ears, whispering things Tweek couldn't quite make out.

Tweek's teeth chattered. He didn't know why. But it kept him from talking.

"Feeling better?" Craig asked.

"No," Tweek managed to get out.

Craig sighed. He lifted Tweek's chin with his fingers, kissed him on the mouth. Craig tasted like toothpaste, and Tweek's heart flipped—of course Craig brushed his teeth before coming to meet Tweek. "How about now?" he asked as he lifted his head back.

"No."

"What would make you feel better, Tweek? Can't you just tell me."

 _It's you_ , Tweek almost said.  _It's you_. But when he went to open his mouth, it slammed shut again. He thought about having braces as a kid, sitting in a chair and getting work done, not being able to talk with a sore jaw. "It's just—Craig, I'm so fucking sick of this! I'm sick of dancing around and doing nothing! I'm sick of people telling me what to do, how to feel! I'm sick of everybody thinking they know what's best for me! I don't even know what's best for me—how can I agree?" Angry tears started to rise, but Tweek swallowed them down. He didn't want to cry; he didn't want to be misconstrued; he didn't want to be hysterical. But what Tweek wanted didn't matter, and every nerve of his body had frayed, had begun to send sparks throughout him.

"That's why I'm here," Craig said calmly. "I know how you feel. I'm trying."

Tweek looked up at Craig, at those stupid, impassive eyes of his. "No, you  _don't_ know, Craig. You only  _think_ you do. You only  _act_ like you do so you get to keep me around."  _And I don't know why_ , Tweek tried to add, but his jaw slammed shut again, his teeth clacking together.

Craig's eyes flickered. Tweek felt victorious—and then ashamed. "You really think that?" he asked.

"Yeah. I do. I mean—Jesus, Craig! You only _pretend_ to hear what I'm saying so I'll shut up. You always have."  
  
"That's not true," Craig said.

"Everybody tells me what they think is  _true_ , like I don't know the truth!" Overheated, Tweek tore away from Craig, pushed the comforter to the side. He did not, however, get up from the bed. "Like I'm so fucking crazy I don't know what's real or not!"

"Tweek," Craig said, reaching out to touch him. Tweek swatted his hand away, breathing heavily.

"Well, Craig, I  _do_ know what's true, and what I know is that this—this doesn't feel true." His voice dropped for the next part. "We're just  _pretending_."

"What do you mean?" Craig asked.

"This—us! We're just  _pretending_ , right?"

"We're just—" Craig frowned, sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Tweek flashed back to him doing the same to Tweek's lip and shook his head, willing the image to go away. This was important. This was the conversation they needed to have.

"We're just what, Craig? We're just fake boyfriends, right?"

"We're just…" Craig sighed again, reaching out for Tweek's hand. Tweek let him take it. "We're just Craig and Tweek, right? We're a duo. We always have been, and we always will be." He smiled, but Tweek looked at it and saw two things at once, a grin and a grimace a smile and a frown.

"Then what's  _this_?" Tweek asked, and he kissed Craig fully on the mouth. He put his hands on both of Craig's thighs, gripping, and when Craig poked into Tweek's mouth with his tongue Tweek sucked it. He kissed Craig like this, as intensely as he could, for what he thought was a short time but probably wasn't—because the more heavily he kissed, the more his body relaxed, the more his nerves fizzled out and tension released. It's just dopamine, he told himself. It's nothing. A physical reaction fighting for control over his mental competence. He still hated himself as he did it, he reminded himself. He hated himself so fucking much.

Eventually, Craig tore away. His lips were red, swollen, slick. He looked like a vampire that'd just been feeding. "That's just…" Craig said, breathing heavily. "That's just us."

"You fucking idiot," Tweek said. He stood up off the bed and went to his window, figuring he could look out at the yard instead of anything else. That's what people did, wasn't it? Look out the window during a fight? Was this a fight? Was that a question he should ask Craig? "You have to stay over now," Tweek said. "My parents want to see me more."

"That's okay," Craig said.

"I hate this room."

"I know you do."

"I want to be at your house."

"I know you do."

"This whole thing, it just fucking sucks."

"It does."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

But that wasn't enough.


	9. Chapter Eight: Keep You In Love With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter feels really disjointed and i wish i could flesh it out some more, but i can't really figure out how w/o being super redundant and my mind is sort of awash in the midst of an allergy attack i'm having so :/
> 
> title from dark side of the gym by the national

The floral scents of a fully blooming spring were all Tweek could focus on as of late. They stuffed themselves down his throat, clung to the walls of his esophagus, gagged him. Craig had been Googling remedies, pulling them from forums for pregnant mothers with morning sickness, learning it was called  _hyperosmia_. The home remedies helped but not fully; Tweek chewed on peppermints so much his teeth hurt, but it just took the edge off. In Tweek's room, where they'd been spending all their time since the fated family therapy session, they kept a bowl of coffee beans on Tweek's bedside table for him to smell intermittently. What worked the best, though, was something they discovered by accident.

Tweek's parents were not as lax as Craig's and would not take as easily to Craig and Tweek openly smoking pot every other evening as they had at Craig's house. So they'd taken up the habit of driving Craig's car to Stark's Pond after school, parking and hotboxing just like every other teenage delinquent teen in South Park. Usually, Tweek hated the gasoline smell of weed, but lately it seemed to be the only reprieve that he could get from the stench of the flowers. So they parked and they smoked and Craig's car smelled like pot all the time, and it got in their clothes and their hair to the point that Token had taken them aside and asked if things were  _alright._ They'd laughed it off, offered for Token and Clyde to join them, but Token wasn't that fond of weed and Clyde had to keep relatively sober to keep playing football.

"It's just so—ack!—terrible!" Tweek said, coughing. He had taken too big of a puff on a joint after a particularly fragrant day, but it had backfired, filling his lungs with fire. Craig thumped Tweek on the back a few times and then rubbed softly, as if to apologize for the roughness. "Dr. Watt said that it isn't a side effect of the pills—that it has to be psychosomatic! But what a weird—ack!—fucking symptom."

"I know, baby," Craig said, his voice as soothing as an ice pack. "Spring'll be over soon. Prom's just in two weeks."

Tweek made a noncommittal noise and, his lungs settled enough, dragged on the joint once more before passing it to Craig. He'd noticed that the quality of the pot had gotten better—Craig usually bought it off Kenny, but this wasn't the cheap shit Kenny sold. As with many gifts Craig gave Tweek that Tweek knew he couldn't really afford, he didn't question it.

"We—ah! Gotta get our tuxes," Tweek said. His mother had been bugging him about it; they had their appointments at the rental place on Saturday, two days from them. "I'm. Not excited."

"Me neither," Craig said. He put the joint in the ash tray he'd started keeping in his console and leaned back in his seat, his hands behind his head. "It's a bullshit façade we are expected to perform."

Tweek smiled. He'd put his seat all the way back, and now he curled up in it like a cat, bringing his knees to his chest and looking at Craig. In addition to taking away the nasty smells, the pot allowed him to let loose his worries about Craig. To be in the moment, and to appreciate the way Craig's torso curved in a  _C_ to his belt, and the ripple of the hem of his jeans across the smooth stroke of the hem of his shirt. He'd started thinking of Craig's body in artistic terms—the long line, connecting himself to himself, that drew Tweek's eyes from top to bottom, the gaze. Real smoke replaced nonexistent gauze, and yet somehow, he could see so much more clearly.

Tweek reached over and put a hand on Craig's stomach. He could feel his breath.

Craig smiled down at him. "It'll be cool though," he said. "To dance."

Tweek snorted. "I can't dance. At all!"

"Me neither." Craig's smiled widened. "That'll be the cool part. 'Cause, like, it doesn't matter, right? It's just me and you. Dancing. When we can't dance."

"Yeah. Dancing when we can't dance." Tweek closed his eyes, imagined it, disbelieving that prom was only in two weeks, graduation shortly thereafter. Everything said and done—apartment waiting for them, school admissions secured, everything else like end of semester exams and prom and graduation a formality. A process. A thing to get through. A façade to perform.

"C'mere," Craig said, those magic words, and Tweek sat up so he could lean across, so they could connect themselves. Lazily, languidly, music playing softly on the radio, the smoke of the joint curling up and encircling them; not even thinking of anything but the long, slow movements of lips and tongues and hands in hair and on hips. Tweek smelled nothing, as if that sense had been removed to amplify every other one. And when hands dipped below belts, and felt and sought, it was not frantic, not hurried—just there, a process, a thing to do, to happen, and a rush of pleasure to wrap itself around them and cradle them to happiness.

But highs don't last forever.

As he and Craig had been spending time at Tweek's house, they had been turning Tweek's room into a facsimile of the comfort that was Craig's. They hung fairy lights, bought a new bed set. They drew the curtains over the window and kept a fan running at all times, giving them an excuse to huddle under the blankets even as the temperatures rose. It was decent enough, Tweek supposed; they'd take the fairy lights, the bed set, and whatever else they managed to amass in the next few months to Denver with them. More than anything, though, the room mocked him. It reminded him that what he was living was a hologram, an illusion held in front of a mirror. Going through the motions of a different Tweek's life, as if he'd stepped into one of the infinite alternate universes Craig was always prattling on about.

Stepping into Tweek's room, putting their backpacks on the floor and shedding their light jackets that afternoon, Tweek said, "Craig. Alternate universes."

"Hmm?" Craig asked. He was sitting on Tweek's bed, pulling off his socks. Plain, today, with the gray coverings on the toes and the ankles. "The multiverse theory?"

"Yeah. That." Tweek brought his thumb to his mouth, chewed on the corner of it. "Do you think, in all those universes, that we're. Like. Together?"

Craig rested a hand on a skinny ankle and smiled at the floor, but Tweek felt as if it were a smile he wasn't supposed to see. "The point of the multiverse theory is that every decision creates an infinite amount of universes," he said softly. "In some universes, we weren't even born, because our parents decided not to have us or they weren't born, either."

"Oh."

"But." Craig looked up. "That'd be pretty fucking stupid, wouldn't it?" Tweek thought that  _this_ smile was a smile meant for him—wide, inviting, followed by, "Come here."

As if drawn by a string Tweek went to Craig, falling on his stomach on the bed beside him. "But the universes where we  _are_ alive," he said, not willing to let this go even as Craig started to rub his back. "Do you think we're always together?"

"Tweek," Craig said, softly.

"Just fucking—"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters a lot, okay?" Tweek rolled over. Craig moved himself down so that he could lay beside Tweek, their legs half off the bed, knees knocking together. "It matters a lot. Because like, what am I without you, Craig? Huh? A fucking mess!"

"Shh, shh, don't get all worked up, now." Craig turned Tweek's face towards him, ran a finger along his jawline. "The multiverse theory is just an intellectual exercise, alright? A thing to think about."

"I just want to know," Tweek said, chewing on his lip, "that when there is Craig and there is Tweek, there is Craig and Tweek, alright? Forever and always."

"If all the other Craigs and all the other Tweeks aren't part of Craig and Tweek," Craig said, moving to rest his forehead against Tweek's, "then they must be awfully lonely."

 _As lonely as I somehow feel right now, even with you here beside me?_  "Yeah," he said instead.

"Why are you all worked up about universes?" Craig asked, a laugh on his breath. Minty fresh breath—he'd been brushing his teeth like a man possessed, trying to help Tweek out. He was still stroking Tweek's cheek, and Tweek felt as if he could feel every line of Craig's fingerprint against his skin, meshing with him.

"I just ah—thought about it," Tweek said. He'd stopped the twitch in its track, but his breath still hitched. Craig made the little  _harrumph_  sound he always did when Tweek twitched, like an egg cracked in his voice, and pressed his lips to Tweek's.

They lounged in bed until dinner, pecking at each other, letting their high fade off like smoke curling out from a joint. To do nothing at all with the one you loved—a luxury Tweek knew many wished for. And yet here he was, tortured, hysteria coming in as the high went out. It was like what he'd learned in science class, when leaves opened their pores, releasing one thing to accept another. Diagrams and those pretty botanical drawings in delicate ink on crumpled brown paper. But that was for growth, like the flowers blooming all around them, and Tweek felt he was dying, shrinking, curling up, turning brown and ready to drop from a tree.

He must had fallen asleep at one point because Craig was shaking his shoulder. "Get up, sleepyhead," he said. "Your mom made a pork roast."

One of the few meals Tweek liked and could stomach. His mother had been cycling through Tweek's favorites since he started spending most nights at home. Tweek muttered something incoherent and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

Dinner was tense, as usual, Tweek's parents trying to make small talk, Craig responding the best he could, their ankles crossed together under the table. Tweek focused on cutting the pork on his plate into extremely small pieces, so impossible to choke on they were probably safe to feed to an infant. He didn't trust himself with a knife and fork, sometimes, didn't trust himself to eat without fucking up—but it'd been years since that happened, and he was determined to divide his dinner as much as possible and put it in his mouth himself.

"Don't your parents miss you, Craig?" Tweek's mother asked. Under the table, Craig moved a hand to rub Tweek's knee. Tweek scowled, poked at his pork roast with his fork. Funny, he thought, how he'd spent so much time stressed over such inconsequential things like North Korea bombing over his house, that real distress passed by unnoticed.

"They, uh." Craig looked down. His hand stilled on Tweek's knee. "They don't really notice."

"They don't notice?" Tweek's mother raised her eyebrows.

"They're busy," Craig said, waving it off. He started rubbing Tweek's knee again. "It's—different. They like for me to be more independent."

"I suppose that makes sense," Tweek's father said. "If things with Tweek were different, maybe we'd feel the same way, Rebecca."

"Maybe," Tweek's mother said. She looked at Tweek. Tweek caught her eye by accident and jerked, his fork sliding against the plate and making an uncomfortable sound. "But I couldn't imagine not noticing that my baby boy is gone."

"They still have Ruby to look after," Craig offered. "She's not as independent as me."

Tweek snorted—he knew that was a lie. Craig was so good at lying, though; he'd perfected the monotone years ago. The version of Craig in front of his parents—it was an alien from one of the alternate universes, perhaps one of those terrible, awful ones Tweek tried not to believe in, where Craig and Tweek were not Craig and Tweek. The thing was, though, that all the different Craigs were meshing together, moving in front of Tweek's eyes, Tweek seeing multiples at once. He stabbed his fork into one of the tiny chunks of meat.

Craig squeezed his knee.

"Well," Tweek's mother said. "Does your mother or father want to come to the tux fitting on Saturday?"

"They're busy," Craig deadpanned.

"Not everybody is as involved in their children's' lives," Tweek's father said to Tweek's mother.

"Do you have to be such a dick to Craig?" Tweek threw his knife and fork down; they missed his plate, sliding across the table and ending up on the floor. He went to stand but Craig kept the grip on his knee, pressing him into his chair as if he were gravity itself. "He's being  _so nice!_ And you're just—bullying him! About his parents! God! You  _know_ what's up with them!"

"Tweek—" his mother and father both began, but Tweek cut them off.

"You  _know_ they don't give a shit about him," Tweek continued. His jaw began to ache. "You  _know_ , okay, you fucking  _know_ , because this is a small town and everybody knows  _everything_!" His hands were gripping the table, shaking. "And you're just—this is what I was talking about! This is why I hate it here! You don't listen, you think you have everything all figured out, that we're—we're different people, but we're not—we're  _here_."

Beats of silence. His parents looked at each other.

Craig took his hand from Tweek's knee and cleared his throat.

Tweek's jaw clenched; he became aware of it, but he didn't want to unclench it, didn't want to let loose the tension that had built up.

"I think it would be best," Tweek's father said slowly after a few beats, "if Tweek were to spend the night at your house, Craig, while his mother and I…have a discussion."

It was Tweek and Craig's turn to look at each other. As usual, Tweek searched for something—what, he wasn't sure—in Craig's eyes; as usual, they were blank; but at least Craig seemed stable, himself, and not shifting, changing, floating between versions. Tweek exhaled through his nose, let loose the table.

"Come into the shop tomorrow, dear," his mother said to him. Tweek head her, but he didn't acknowledge her.

They left immediately, pulling their shoes at the front door on without socks, Craig's wallet and keys already in his jeans pockets. The ride to Craig's house was not long and they didn't talk; Tweek picked at the skin on his thumbs, then brought them up to his eyes, staring at his own fingerprint. Did all the other Craigs and Tweeks share a fingerprint? Did they all spin out into their own versions, as the galaxies did?

"I want a bath," Tweek announced as soon as they pulled into Craig's driveway. His parents' cars were gone, which was not unusual, but their absence was glaring and obvious tonight.

"Good idea," Craig said. His voice sounded ancient.

Tweek sat on the closed toilet lid in Craig's tiny bathroom as Craig drew the bath. They had no bath bombs or bubble bath; Craig substituted with Epsom salt and honey, swirling it around every so often so that it wouldn't clump together. It started to steam in the bathroom, fogging the mirror, Tweek's hair dampening. Craig pulled his shirt off and Tweek counted the bumps of his spine, all the way down to the small dip of his back, connecting lines between the sparse freckles and moles. Craig swirled his hand around in the water, took it back, looked up at Tweek and said, "In we go."

Wordlessly they shed the rest of their clothes and stepped in the tub together. Water sloshed carelessly over the sides and onto the bare, cold tile floor. Tweek wanted to sink below the surface, wake up floating in the sea. Instead he stared at Craig, unabashedly: Craig's hair curled just the slightest in the humidity, off his forehead, and his mouth was slightly parted, and a bead of sweat was moving down his collarbone. Tweek put his hand there, and then leaned completely into Craig, letting Craig wrap his arms around him.

"Did I upset you at dinner?" Tweek asked.

Craig took a moment to respond. "No," he said, finally. "I mean, you're right. It's just shitty."

"I know. Poor Craig." Tweek moaned, his eyes sliding shut. "I can't believe—I can't believe I complain about my parents, oh my God, when you have yours—"

"Shh, shh," A hand rubbing down Tweek's back, and then a washcloth, moving in slow motions. "It's alright. It's fine. My parents—fuck them. I really don't care, Tweek. I really don't." Another hand smoothing Tweek's hair, replaced by Craig muttering against his scalp. "We're just passing the time, right? Going through the motions? The processes? Until we move to the apartment? So, whatever, who gives a fuck about my useless parents? Yours are like—they actively affect you, right? Mine don't. Mine don't, and they don't matter."

Tweek recognized this pattern of speech. Knew what Craig was up to. For once, Tweek thought, he needed to step into Craig's role—to comfort him. Craig was shaking a bit despite the water's heat, and Tweek moved as close as he could, taking his arms and wrapping them around Craig's thin body. Craig dropped his head down on Tweek's. "Fuck them," Tweek whispered. "Fuck them all."

"I just—" Craig's voice hitched, and Tweek's heart broke. "It's not that bad, right? They don't hurt us or anything, right? So why do I—why do I still worry about Ruby?"

"Because you love her," Tweek said, still speaking softly. He could feel Craig's heart beating, every inch of their skin touching that could, and maybe it was the steam, or the warmth, or the small quivering animal that Craig had become, but Tweek felt calm. "You worry about the ones you love."

"God knows I do," Craig said softly, and Tweek didn't respond, because sometimes Craig said things to Tweek that weren't actually meant to be said—because Tweek wasn't so much another person to judge and to talk back as an extension of Craig, sometimes. Tweek knew this; Tweek knew the ramifications of this; Tweek knew that in an hour, after they'd calmed down and gotten out of the bath, their skin salt-scrubbed and pink, and they'd settled in Craig's bed with his laptop on their stomachs and the lights off, that everything bad would reoccur to Tweek, that he would begin to freak out again. He knew he could not live in this calmness forever—it scared him more than when he was actually scared—but for now, he forced himself to. For Craig.

Time passed. The bath water started to cool. Craig said, "I love you." Before Tweek could respond, he then said, "Let's go to bed."

To bed they went; Tweek, an oracle, had predicted the future. They watched part of Planet Earth II on Netflix before Craig fell asleep on his back, snoring softly. Tweek stared down at his face, moved his hair from his forehead, and thought:  _I have made the biggest fucking mistake and I have no idea where I am going, what I am doing, and who the fuck lives inside of Craig now, anyway_.

Tweek put the laptop on the floor and slid down to curl up next to Craig; in his sleep, Craig drew an arm around Tweek, pinning him to his side. Tweek tangled their legs together, grabbed a fistful of Craig's shirt, and let loose hot, salty tears, biting down on his other hand to keep from waking Craig. To say that he was in over his head would be an understatement—but, Tweek wondered, who was  _he_? Himself? Craig? The many versions of themselves that had somehow met in this universe, joined? The infinite sadness, the fingerprints spiraling outwards?

Tweek stressed himself to a sleep wrought with indefinite nightmares, waking naturally at the hour when he had to leave for the store. He dressed completely in Craig's clothes: black and green striped boxers, an old pair of black skinny jeans, an oversized white knitted sweater, the favorite leather jacket, a pink pair of socks with little guinea pigs on them. The only thing Tweek wore of his own were his shoes, and that was just because they didn't share a shoe size. He even took a pair of Craig's earrings and went to the bathroom, biting down on a washcloth as he shoved the backs through his old, healed-over holes, as he hadn't worn earrings since he and Craig got them together in middle school. Craig still did, sometimes, black studs and silver stars. Tweek wiped away the dots of blood from behind his ears, feeling invigorated by the small pricks of pain.

Geared for battle, Tweek walked the way to the shop since they hadn't taken his car. It wasn't cold outside; Tweek was sweating in his sweater and his jacket. The night seemed stuck, the stars peeling backwards as the sun loomed just below the horizon, waiting for its cue to rise. Tweek gritted his teeth, curled his fingers, focused on the throbs in his earlobes.

He pushed the door open to Tweak Bros., the little bell tinkling. His father was nowhere to be found—probably in the backroom, doing inventory or bookwork—but his mother was behind the counter, scrolling down her phone.

"Tweek," she said, by way of hello. "Dearest."

"Mother," Tweek replied.

"Oh, Tweek." She walked out from behind the counter and went to a table, gesturing to the seat across from her. "Come here, let's talk."

"Where's Dad?" Tweek asked as he took a seat behind his mother.

"Working on our orders for May," his mother said. "It's the end of the month, you know. A busy time."

"I know." Tweek steeled himself, trying to keep his resolve.

"Are those earrings?" His mother cocked his head. "I thought you'd stopped wearing those?"

"They're Craig's," Tweek said, as if that explained everything.

His mother sighed. "Craig," she said, as if his name were a test she'd exhausted herself by studying for. "Tweek, honey—you were right. Your father and I, we forget, sometimes. We're so concerned about you, and Craig is always there—we don't think that what we say will hurt his feelings."

"Did you say—did you say I was  _right_?"

His mother smiled. She had her hand resting on the table; Tweek knew he should take it, but instead he just stared. "We don't think you're crazy, honey," his mother said. "Like I said—we just  _worry_ about you. It's hard, you know. To watch you suffer. That's why we like for you to work at the shop. When you take your minds off things, you're more yourself. And I guess Craig helps with that." She said the last part a little skeptically. "Your father and I talked. We're willing to come to a compromise."

"A compromise?" Tweek asked. He had no idea what she could be referring to.

"We won't hold you prisoner any longer," his mother said. "We know that you'll be gone in a few months, anyway, right? So what's the difference? But, we really would like to see more of you. We asked Marnie if she would be willing to switch her shift from the afternoon to the morning, and she said yes. So if you can work then, you can spend all the rest of the time as you please."

Tweek blinked. He looked at his mother as if seeing her for the first time—she had the same faint freckles across her nose as Tweek did, the same slightly downturned eyes, the same space between her nose and her mouth. How long had it been since he had thought of them in tandem, thought of himself as a part of this family and not just as a member of his little unit with Craig? He looked at her hand, at edge of her sleeve, the wrinkles across her knuckles, the simple wedding ring, and though he did not take it, he did not view it as a threat.

"That would be…okay," he said.

He passed the rest of the morning working business as usual at the shop, leaving a little early to retrieve his car for the drive to school. He felt far more awake than typical, though he supposed that was just a fluke. He parked rather badly at school and practically fell out of his car into Craig's arms.

"Whoa," Craig said. "What happened?"

"They said I was  _right_ , Craig!" Tweek laughed, pulling his head back to quickly peck Craig on the lips. "They said I was  _right_! I'm going to work at the shop in the afternoons, now, and then I'm—and then  _we're_ —free! Fucking free!"

Craig smiled, pulling Tweek back into a tight hug. "That's great," he said. "That's really great."

"I think," Tweek said, pulling back again to see Craig's face, "that maybe we should spend more time at my house? As a thanks? Maybe—maybe it won't be so bad now? They said I was  _right_."

Craig furrowed his brow, but then his face smoothed, and he said, "We can do that, yeah." Then he ran a finger over one of Tweek's earlobes. "Are you wearing my earrings?"

Tweek just smiled and nudged him in response, and they made their way to their second period study hall together. Tweek thought he'd be too keyed up to sleep, but the hum of the school's air conditioning and the proximity to Craig made it easy. He looped his ankle over Craig's under the desk and fell asleep with Craig scratching his scalp with one hand while doing homework with the other; he knew that while this might have drawn attention for any other pair, nobody would raise their eyebrows at Craig and Tweek being as gay as they all believed they had always been.

As their tux appointments were the next day they had planned to spend that night at Tweek's regardless, but Tweek felt as though he were returning home by choice after school. The expected anxiety of driving on the road at the same time as Craig came, though perhaps diluted. Tweek parked half in the driveway at his house, half in the grass, Craig orderly behind him.

"Token asked if we wanted to go to some art market in North Park tonight," Craig said as they regrouped, walking to Tweek's house.

"No," Tweek said.

"That's what I told him." They stopped as they took their shoes off in the doorway, smiling at each other. Craig reached forward and pulled on a lock of Tweek's hair.

"You know me so well," Tweek said, putting his hand over Craig's. They were alone in the house, Tweek's parents at the shop. The lights were off, everything casting long shadows from what sun managed to break through the drawn curtains.

"'Course I do," Craig said. He moved his hand to cradle Tweek's cheek, leaning down to kiss him.

Tweek let it happen. He let Craig's other hand move inside of Tweek's jacket, hold the small of Tweek's back. He let Craig walk him back, pressing him against the wall of the doorway, their keys hanging on a hook to the left of Tweek's head. He let Craig press their chests together.

Craig moved his mouth from Tweek's lips downwards, nosing against Tweek's neck, moving the collar of Tweek's—well, technically Craig's—sweater aside to suck at the skin adjacent to his shoulder. Tweek moved his head back.

"Are you trying to give me a hickey?" he asked the ceiling.

"Yeah," Craig said, breath wet against Tweek's skin. Goosebumps rose; Tweek shivered, a violent thing, and Craig grabbed ahold of him around his waist. Tweek moved a hand to rub at the back of Craig's neck, feeling the buttons of his spine. "Never done that before."

"Yeah," Tweek agreed. "They'll—they'll see it tomorrow. At the tux place!"

"That's the point, Tweek," Craig said, patiently. He nipped again at Tweek's skin and then rose to look at what he'd done, moving a hand from Tweek's waist to pull Tweek's shirt to the side. "You have such sensitive skin. It's already so red."

Tweek looked down, and indeed it was, a strawberry mark on the pale skin normally hidden beneath his shirt. "It's not fair," he said after a few heady moments of watching his own skin pucker and blush. "Why do I have to be the one that's—marked?"

"You want to do it to me, too?" Craig asked. He cocked his head, exposed the white skin of his neck as if inviting a vampire.

"Yeah," Tweek said.

"I'm too tall." Craig smirked. "You can't reach me."

"Yes, I can!" Tweek stood up on his tiptoes, and he could reach Craig's neck by doing that, if just barely. He grabbed ahold of the other side of Craig's neck, more for traction than anything, pressing his thumb into the hollow, and bit him. He felt Craig buckle, his hand around Tweek's waist tightening. Tweek sucked hard, much harder than Craig had done to him. He did not fool himself by thinking that  _that_ was out of necessity—he genuinely wanted Craig's skin between his teeth.

"Jesus, Tweek."

"Now we match," Tweek said, pulling away.

"Now we match." Craig touched the sore spot on his neck. He seemed dazed, a smile slowly blooming across his lips. Tweek realized, thinking in flower metaphors, that the smell of spring had not bothered him all day.

The rest of the day passed quietly, with no noticeable changes in the dynamic between Tweek, his parents and Craig, though Tweek still felt as if some pressure had been alleviated. His mother made potato soup for dinner, Tweek's all time favorite, and he ate to the point of a  _pleasant_ stomachache for the first time in a very long time.

In the car on their way to Denver, Tweek's parents in the front and Craig and Tweek in the back, they shared a pair of headphones. Craig was sitting in the middle so Tweek, secured by his seatbelt, could be bookended by solid substances: the car door and Craig's body. They listened to a Beach House album that cradled Tweek as much as Craig did, and Tweek let himself float in and out of a state that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't wakefulness, either. Dulcet sounds swirled around, formed into images that faded from memory as soon as they came—something about riding bikes and eating shaved ice in the summer. Much preferable to the otherwise heart-hammering anxiety of long car rides, was this gentle lulling. Craig kept a hand in Tweek's hair, running his fingers through the same strands, smoothing out the curls that had formed where Tweek had slept.

"What color dresses are your dates wearing?" the woman taking their measurements asked. It was Craig's turn, Tweek already measured and sitting in one of the small chairs shoved against the side of the tux rental place. His mother and father had watched Tweek but had gone to a neighboring antique store now that it was time for Craig.

"We are each other's dates," Craig said flatly.

"Oh!" the woman fumbled her measuring tape a bit but recovered. "Well, that's just lovely."

Tweek cringed. He recognized the woman's—her name was Amber, or at least that's what she had introduced herself as—tone of voice. The overenthusiasm, the over-awareness, the overcompensation. Tweek brought his thumb to his mouth and bit down on a piece of chipped skin. He wished Craig hadn't brought it up, but Craig always brought it up.

"We've been together for eight years," Craig said, sticking an arm out so Amber could measure it.

"That sure is a long time," Amber muttered. "Very sweet."

"Yes," Craig said, as if this were as obvious as the color of the sky.

Amber didn't try to make conversation after that; neither Craig nor Tweek encouraged it. They sat in the small chairs while Amber went to get tuxes that might fit them, holding hands, Tweek keeping the one thumb at his mouth. The small bell over the door rang and Tweek's parents returned, his father carrying a brown paper bag with the name of the antique store stamped on front.

"Did we miss anything?" Tweek's mother asked.

Tweek shook his head.

Amber returned with an armful of tuxes, all in the plain black-and-white style. Again, Tweek went first. The first one was too itchy, the second a little baggy, the third tight, but the fourth worked. Besides how they felt, Tweek could discern no differences in their appearances, but his mother assured him that he looked very handsome. Craig said nothing, his eyes unfocused, passive.

Then it was Craig's turn. Tweek could not keep his eyes from the hickey of Craig's neck, which had expanded into an archipelago of love bites, strawberry islands on the pale white sea of Craig's skin. If Tweek could not stop staring, he knew that his parents, and Amber couldn't, either; and like a beacon, the hickeys kept him from seeing Craig in the tuxes, really. He had a vague impression of long legs in swaths of black, a bowtie nestled in the hollow of a throat.

They walked out with their tuxes, carried by Tweek's father along with the antiques store bag, and a date by which to return them; it was Craig and Tweek's responsibility the morning after prom to make a stop by this place on the way home. The sun exploded over Tweek as they walked into the parking lot, and on the air he caught a scent, stopping to stoop over with his hands on his thighs.

"Tweek?" Craig asked, standing behind him, while his mother turned around and said, "Are you okay?"

"It's the smells," Craig said to Tweek's mother. "They've been bothering him."

Tweek kept his head down, his jaw clenching. All he could feel was the sun on the back of his neck and the gentle throb of the hickey, his consistently hidden beneath his shirt.

"What smells?" Tweek's mother asked. Tweek could hear the cock of her head in her voice, though he could not see it, his eyes on his shoes.

"The flowers," Craig said. "Here, Tweek—I still have some mints."

Tweek took the mint from Craig and stood up, unwrapping it with shaking fingers, rubbing around his nose before popping it into his mouth. His parents watched him, eyebrows furrowed with questions, questions that Tweek could both answer and not answer.

"He'll be alright," Craig said, after everybody had watched Tweek suck on this mint and smooth the plastic wrapper between his fingers for a few moments. "Won't you, Tweek?"

"I'll be alright," Tweek said. He felt as if he were speaking from a different body in a different reality. The cool of the mint on his tongue, he started to walk, everybody rushing to reassume their own places. His nose filled with sick scents, sun slamming into him again and again, and two weeks until he will wear matching suits with Craig and stand awash in the fluorescent procession of prom.


	10. Chapter Nine: Harlem River

Prom was not fluorescent but dimly lit, strands of large bulbs hung across the ceiling and tied to dark wooden posts washing the room in yellow. Mood-lit, Tweek thought. The dance was being held in a banquet hall in East Park, the same town where their high school was located. With such a plain venue, one that existed throughout the world in many different forms, Park County High School had done a good job of personalizing it. The theme was  _romantic gardens_ ; fake ivy clung to every wall and trellises that had been constructed inside, centerpieces made with real roses and carnations on tables adorned with delicate white lace tablecloths. The punch bowl even had little pink flower petals frozen in ice cubes.

"They really overdid it, huh?" Token asked after he'd found them. They had set themselves up at a table in the corner of the floor, giving Tweek a good vantage point and protecting him from behind.

"I  _told_ Bebe nobody actually cares." That was Wendy, Token's date. She had her hair pushed to the side, a silver clip that caught what little lighting there was securing it in place. She was wearing a deep blue gown, elegant and formfitting. Token's tie and corsage were in the matching color. With her heels, she and Token were equal height. "But she and the rest of the committee were just  _so determined_ to blow the school's budget on this."

"It's—cool!" Tweek said. "The effect! They really. Captured it."

Wendy smiled at him as one would a dog that was begging for treats. "Yes, well. I'm more excited about the afterparty. Are you guys going?"

"I don't know if we'll go to the afterparty," Craig said. He moved the straw inside of his punch. He'd brought a flask in and spiked it, though Tweek didn't want his own drink alcoholic, at least not yet. "We have a room at the hotel, though."

Wendy said something, but the song changed at the same time, a croaky hype-man's voice covering up whatever it was that she had to say. Token shrugged, shouted that they'd come find them later, and then they went on to touch base at another table with people Tweek only vaguely recognized.

Craig turned to him and shouted, "I hate this song."

"Me, too!"

"This is fucking lame."

"It is."

Craig smiled at Tweek and pressed his index finger against the tip of Tweek's nose.

With little else to do—there was no way they were going to get up and get on the floor to this sort of music—Craig and Tweek people-watched. Their chairs were scooted together, their hands held on top of the table. It was only half an hour into prom and people were still arriving. Stan and Kyle showed up together, Kyle already incensed and ranting about something; Clyde came STAG as promised, Annie and Esther instead attending prom together; Cartman wore a powder blue tux with Heidi in a big, 80's style pink monstrosity, and shouted to everybody including Craig and Tweek that it was  _fucking ironic, okay, assholes?_ Craig laughed, and though Tweek didn't think it was that funny at all, he laughed, too, happy to see Craig so carefree and to feel his hand in his. He supposed whatever was in the flask helped on Craig's part, but he continued to deny some for himself.

The small banquet hall quickly became overstuffed. Music pounding between his ears, the smells started to creep up on Tweek. Floral perfume, overapplied cologne, soap and sweat, the tang of alcohol and a hint of weed, all stirred up by everybody dancing and sneaking hands up skirts and into suits. Tweek put his forehead on the table, stared down at the patterns on the lace tablecloth. At this close distance they hazed and doubled before his eyes.

Craig leaned down and whispered in Tweek's ear, "Are you okay?"

Tweek shook his head, butting against Craig's chin.

"Let's go to the bathroom." Craig got out of his chair and pulled Tweek's own out, helping Tweek out. What had been calming lighting was now disorienting, blurring everybody and everything into looking the same. But their table was not far from the bathroom and Craig led Tweek there with a hand on his back, keeping the pathway parted with just a glare.

Inside the bathroom they found people they didn't know and also Kenny McCormick sitting on a counter and holding a lit cigarette out the thin slit in the small bathroom window. He and Craig nodded at each other while Craig went and wetted a paper towel. This was for Tweek, who had not realized he'd been sweating until Craig was petting him, the gentle dabs offsetting the cheap roughness of the makeshift washcloth.

"What's up with him?" Kenny asked.

"You know you could've, like, walked outside, right?" Craig asked, not looking at Kenny. A urinal flushed and the guy that was at it walked out with washing his hands; Tweek cringed.

"Nah," Kenny said. He took a drag on the cigarette and turned his head to blow the smoke out the window. "But. Tweek. Is this, like, a normal freak-out, or what?"

"It's the  _smells_ ," Tweek said. "It's too much."

"Oh, shit. Is this bothering you?" Kenny gestured towards the cigarette.

"No, it's all going out the window." Tweek twitched. The bathroom didn't smell too bad yet, this early in the night, and the soap in the dispensers had no scent. "I wish I could go out the window!"

"Now, now," Craig said. He pulled the paper towel away and kissed Tweek's cheek. "There's no need to defenestrate yourself."

"Nice word, bro," Kenny offered.

Craig rolled his eyes. He reached into his tux and pulled out a mint from his jacket, presenting it to Tweek. "I brought some," Craig said.

Tweek raised his eyebrows. "How much do you have hidden in that tux?" From the counter, Kenny laughed. Craig just smiled. Tweek took the mint and popped it into his mouth, and then they left the bathroom, intending to return to their table. But the music had changed to something soft and slow, some standard Top 40 love song affair, and Craig instead led Tweek to the dancefloor.

"Is this okay?" Craig whispered. The music was low enough that he could.

Tweek looked around. The dance floor was more open than it had been, people without anybody to dance with now sidelined. A decent number of couples still waltzed around, though. He saw Cartman and Heidi near the stage, Cartman's eyes closed; Wendy and Token were dancing and talking, Wendy laughing at something Token had just said; Jimmy and his date had arranged themselves around his crutches so they could at least sway. The lighting on the dancefloor was stronger, though still yellowed, the shadows on Craig's face enhancing his jawline, the leaning line of his nose. Tweek sucked on his mint and raised his arms.

Craig led, of course, and they danced in a simple four-step, back and forth and side to side. It was awkward, and a spot in the middle of Tweek's back ached, unfamiliar to using his muscles in this manner even with his time spent lifting heavy objects at the shop. Craig's lips were pulled together as if he was concentrating, and it made Tweek smile. The Top 40 song faded into something marginally less awful, and still they danced in their mismatched pattern. Tweek's eyes traced the shapes and contours of Craig's face, loving the opportunity to just  _stare_ , and judging by Craig's moving pupils, he did the same.

They had danced; they had drunk the punch with the frozen rose petals; they had eaten little sandwiches with the absurdly fluffy white bread; they had socialized to the extent that they desired; now, it was time to leave. They were some of the first to go, slipping out the front door unnoticed, saying goodbye to nobody. It was not unusual, for Craig and Tweek to float in and out like this, everybody used to their existence relating to each other and nobody else.

The night was unusually cool for late May, a breeze rolling in from the mountains. There were not as many stars in the sky, East Park more developed and letting off more light pollution, but Craig and Tweek looked up anyway. Sparsely spotted pricks of light, enough to remind them that they were still in relatively rural Colorado, not enough to assemble into any recognizable constellations. Still they stood in the parking lot and stared, and Craig took Tweek's hand in his, squeezed it.

"Did you like it?" Craig whispered. Tweek had to concentrate to make out what he said; his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton from the noise of prom.

Tweek shrugged.

"I liked it," Craig said, softer still. "But because you were there."

Tweek squeezed Craig's hand and looked away from the stars, at him. Craig still had his head tilted up, the line of his jaw and the paleness of his face jutting up against the darkness of night. The breeze pushed a rustic wooden sign with  _PARK COUTNY HIGH SCHOOL PROM_ burned into it, the sound gentle and rhythmic.

"Are you okay to drive?" Tweek asked. "Are you drunk?"

"I'm fine," Craig said. "I put like, four ounces of vodka into my punch two hours ago."

"Oh," Tweek said. "I thought it was more than that."

"I just. I didn't want to actually get drunk. And I knew I'd have to drive." Craig turned towards Tweek as if to shield him from the breeze. "Ready to go?"

Tweek nodded, yet they didn't move. Craig took Tweek's other hand, holding them both.

"I—" he started, then stopped, screwing his face up. Tweek waited, feeling the wind pushing around them, and Craig's hands cool as stone in his own, but Craig said nothing else. He just dipped his head down and kissed Tweek firmly, decisively, reminding Tweek of their very first kiss, and then tugged on Tweek's hand to start leading him towards his car.

The drive to Denver took about forty-five minutes, the highway quiet and dark. With them both relishing the silence after the loud buzz of prom, Craig didn't bother to play any music. He did turn the GPS on his phone on, not letting Tweek see the screen as to not give away their destination, and the soft, robotic female voice reading their directions helped Tweek to that place between sleep and wakefulness he knew so well. He leaned inwards towards Craig, his legs curled on the seat, and Craig ran a hand through Tweek's hair at interment intervals when the driving was calm enough to allow him to do so.

Tweek reluctantly blinked himself awake when they pulled into the parking lot of an opulent hotel. He recognized it at once—whenever they went into Denver together, Tweek had always pointed this building out to Craig, because it was unspeakably beautiful. It was the Harlem River Hotel, Art Deco and trussed up in white and gold, the type of place you pull into and have the valet park your car for you.

"Is this where everybody's staying?" Tweek asked, disbelieving. The room as the Harlem River Hotel cost upwards of four hundred a night.

"No," Craig said. "Everybody else is going to be at a Hampton Inn. This is my gift to you."

"Craig," Tweek said softly, unbelievably touched. As Craig moved the car into the hotel's entrance—Tweek recognized the pavement as Chicago brick—Tweek put a hand on Craig's arm. "How did you afford this?"

"coin," Craig said, simply. A valet approached their car and gave them a slip of paper, Craig giving his name and showing his license. When he walked over to Tweek's side he took his arm. "I was an early advisor. I'm—I've made a lot of money, Tweek."

Tweek furrowed his brow. He'd heard Craig talk about coin before, and sort of knew what it was, but it wasn't something he concerned himself with. He looked at Craig. "Then why were you pressuring me about my parents?"

The doors to the hotel, lit by invisible lights hidden in the frame and made of impossibly clean glass, slid open. Tweek became momentarily distracted by the hotel lobby: while the outside of the hotel was white and gold, the inside was dark, black walls delineated by white trim, gray furniture, a plush white rug on nearly black hardwood floors. Every edge Tweek could see was smooth, rounded; not a seam in sight. Tweek looked at Craig, Craig still holding his arm, eyes wide. "What—what did you say?" Tweek asked.

"I said," Craig said, smiling, "that cryptocurrency is an unsure and fluctuating market. I buy quickly and pull my investments out just as quickly. It's not livable. But I spend all my money on you."

"Craig," Tweek said again, unsure of what else to say. It amazed him—he and Craig had objectively ugly names, brusque one syllable things, but when he said the word Craig it felt like saying something luxurious and long in French. And when Craig graced him with his name in the same manner, it removed all Tweek's self-doubt. To say that Tweek was feeling amazingly in love as Craig walked them to the check-in desk, a chandelier draped with crystal beads hanging above the receptionist's head, would have been an understatement.

"Craig Tucker," Craig said to the receptionist, simply.

"Right," the receptionist said. He typed on the computer, and again Tweek tuned the noise out to look around the room some more. Ferns in smooth ceramic holders, a television playing the weather, soft music coming from an unidentified source, a coffee bar with actual pastries instead of the cheap chocolate chip cookies at the lower end hotels, coffee steaming. Tweek wandered over to the coffee bar and poured himself a cup; it was rich, expensive, better than the stuff they sold at Tweak Bros. or Dunkin's for sure. He drank it all and then filled the to-go cup more, grabbing a lemon bar as he did so.

"Found the coffee, huh?" Craig asked, coming up beside Tweek. "I should make some for myself."

"It's  _so good_ ," Tweek said awesomely.

Craig laughed and assembled himself a cup; while Tweek had went for the dark world's blend, Craig took the light roast, dropping ice from the small ice bucket in. He took a sip and smiled, nodding.

"Check out this key," Craig said, pulling it from the inside the tux, where he kept all his secrets. It was a legitimate room key, heavy and bronze, their room number attacked to the keyring. Tweek took it, running his fingers over the bite of its teeth.

"I just—" Tweek started to say, but Craig shook his head and took his hand for the millionth time that night—or perhaps it was just a continuation of their normal state, and when they were not holding hands that was the exception. Tweek ruminated on this, the key trapped between his and Craig's hands, the to-go cups of coffee in the others. They made their way through a hallway off the main lobby which led into a little seating nook with attached elevator. The elevator doors were marvelously constructed, resembling the outside of the building, white with the gold art deco trim. They lucked out and one opened immediately when Craig pressed the button.

Inside the elevator every wall was a mirror. Tweek handed the key to Craig and looked at themselves. Despite Tweek feeling a little disheveled from half-sleeping in the car, they still looked rather put together, smart. Especially Craig; his tux seemed as if a wrinkle had never graced it in its life as a garment. Tweek had slicked back his wild hair, pulling it into a bun at the nape of his neck, while Craig had gotten a haircut for the occasion, the neat trim of the razor still visible at his hairline. Tweek caught Craig's eye in the mirror and grinned.

The hallway of the fourth room was done in much the same style as the lobby, dark wood floors with black walls, and their room was in the middle of the hallway that led to the elevator. The doors were heavy; Craig struggled to open theirs, caught off guard.

Into the room they stepped, Tweek's jaw dropping. The space was large and open, no narrow hallway leading in like every other hotel Tweek had ever stayed at. The bed sat on a platform raised about half a foot off the main part, bookended by end tables and with a sleek ottoman jutting against the foot of the bed. The headboard was large, much larger than the bed itself, made of dimpled white leather, offsetting the plain black of the bedclothes. The bathroom occupied a back corner, the door half slid open to reveal a plethora of marble and granite. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy draperies pulled to the side, a television against the window and a seating area with a couch and two armchairs matching the ottoman angled towards the television. A second room to their right held a kitchen and dining area, with the right side of the bedroom taken up by a closet that stretched from floor to ceiling like the windows. Everything was adorned with heavy curtains, ferns sat in corners and bar lights were dimmed low. Tweek had never seen anything like it, had never stepped foot into such opulence.

Craig shed his suit jacket and hung it on the coat rack next to the door. Tweek jerked, drawn out of admiration by the rustling of fabric, and did the same. They toed out of their dress shoes and lined them up against the wall.

"The valet'll bring our bags up in a minute, I think," Craig said. He walked to the ottoman and stretched out on it, depositing his coffee on the small table to its side. Tweek followed him, watched as Craig undid the bowtie around his neck, unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt.

"I really don't want to go to the afterparty," Tweek said, sitting down on the ottoman against Craig's legs. Craig pulled them out from behind Tweek, putting them in his lap.

"Fuck no," Craig said. "I brought weed and my laptop. We'll have our own party."

"Craig," Tweek said, whatever it was that needed to be said between them on the tip of his tongue but not quite there—especially as at that moment, there was a knock at the door.

Craig swung his legs from Tweek's lap as if it pained him and walked to answer the knock. Tweek watched his hips, and his ass, and the way the dress pants pulled across his thighs. He knew, vaguely, what was to come. What  _had_ to come. Stops and starts and lurches and breaks from their natural state, separations from their existence across the universes as a joined pair, had brought them here. Brought them to the beauty of the Harlem River, the beauty of this moment, the stepping into the universe of a Craig and Tweek where affluence and affection came easily and they were them but they were not.

The door shut, the valet tipped, and Craig brought their duffel bags into the room. He set them down against the platform of the bed and pulled a baggie of weed and a pipe from the pocket. "I'm glad they don't inspect these," he said. "Like, celebrities stay here. I bet they do a  _shit-ton_ of coke."

Tweek laughed and sipped his coffee. He pulled at his own bowtie, loosening it but not taking it off completely. The tightness of the top buttons of his shirt were keeping him centered, acting like a focus.

Craig packed the pipe and lit it, taking a hit and bringing himself back over to the ottoman. He gave the pipe to Tweek, who inhaled and then passed it back. Tweek took his hair from its confine and shook his head, the slick strands smacking in his face, and then he ran his hands through it, trying to get the volume back. "Did you buy that good weed with your coin money?" he asked.

Craig gave the pipe back. "Yeah," he said, blowing smoke. "Kenny told me about a guy in East Park. I bought if off of him."

"Nice," Tweek said. He leaned his head back on the couch. The ceiling of the room was tall, and a chandelier sat in the middle of it, currently unlit. "Thank you, Craig. For everything."

"It's all for you," Craig said, as if this were a nonissue. "For us."

"Still." Tweek rolled his head and held the pipe back out for Craig. "You do so much for me, crazy old Tweek. I don't deserve it."

"Don't say that," Craig whispered. "You deserve the world."

Tweek closed his eyes, breathing in the welcome scent of pot smoke, accepting the pipe when Craig passed it back. They sat on the couch, inching closer and closer, smoking the bowl and not saying anything. The heating kicked on at some point, the furnace located between the bed and the windows, and Tweek listened to it run. He kept his eyes closed; despite the beauty of the room, he focused on the physical sensations, the smells and sounds and coolness of the glass pipe in his hand, warmness of Craig's thigh against his own.

"Don't fall asleep," Craig whispered again some time later, Tweek drifting around in his own subconsciousness.

Tweek cracked an eye open. Craig's face was very close to his own, the pipe fizzled out and on the small table with their coffee cops. Tweek put a hand on the back of Craig's head, feeling the short hairs against his fingertips, and leaned forward, pressing their mouths together.

They kissed slowly at first, but not aimlessly: there was a purpose, and they both knew it. Craig pulled Tweek's bowtie off fully, finally, and then set on unbuttoning his shirt, while Tweek kept one hand behind Craig's neck and the other on his thigh. When his shirt was fully unbuttoned Tweek pressed into Craig, lowering him on his back, Craig's legs hanging off the couch but Tweek pulling his to rest his knees in the side. He pressed his bare chest to Craig's clothed ones, feeling the dig of the shirt buttons, moving his mouth from Craig's to his neck. The hickey had healed; Tweek set on making new ones.

"Hold on," Craig said, suddenly.

Tweek sat back on his haunches and stared curiously at Craig. Craig got up from the couch and took his laptop from the duffel bag, Tweek laughed at the absurdity of it while Craig walked to one of the bedside tables and delicately balanced the laptop, plugging the charger into the wall.

"I—I have a playlist," Craig said, by way of explanation. "I wanted this to be right."

"Aw," Tweek said, not sure if he was mocking Craig or being genuine.

Craig opened his Spotify-premium, Tweek noticed, probably payed for with the coin money—and selected a playlist simply titled  _HARLEM RIVER._ "I looked up the words on YouTube," he said. "And this song came up, and I thought. It just sounds  _right_."

A plucked guitar filled the room, the song echoing off itself. The sound floated out to Tweek, wrapping his arms around him, and a man with a voice as smooth and rich as the downstairs coffee started to sing. Craig stood there, mouthing the words, then stopped when he saw Tweek looking at him. Tweek laughed and got up from the ottoman, walking over to Craig.

"It's perfect," Tweek said, wrapping his arms around Craig and leaning his head against his chest. "This song. It does sound right."

"Yeah," Craig said. He put his arms around Tweek and walked him backwards to the bed, sitting him down and then sitting beside him. He took one of Tweek's hands.

"We're. We're going to have sex, right?"

Tweek nodded.

"Are you scared?"

"A little," Tweek said. "I've never—I've never had sex before."

"I'd hope not," Craig said, a little laugh like a hiccup in his throat. "Maybe, though. The other Craigs and Tweeks have."

"Fuck them," Tweek said. "I don't—I don't care about the other Craigs and Tweeks, I care about us, here, now. As far as I care—we're the firsts."

"The firsts," Craig repeated. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing down low. Tweek watched, wanting to bite it. "Of course. This is what we are. This is what we do."

"You don't have to convince yourself," Tweek said, heart falling. "If you don't want to have sex—"

"Of course I do, fuck!" Craig looked away from Tweek, swallowing again. "I just. I want it to be  _good_ ," he said, more to his laptop than to Tweek.

"Craig," Tweek said, plainly. "Of course it'll be  _good_."

"I've been researching," Craig said. He took his hand from Tweek's to worry his own hands together. "Watching porn, reading WikiHow articles, you know. I have all the stuff. Lube, condoms—"

"Condoms?" Tweek asked. He bleated out a goat-like laugh. "Do you think you're going to get me pregnant?"

Craig looked at him, a suppressed smile on his lips. "I don't know," he said. "Aren't you supposed to wear condoms?"

"We're clean and we're boys," Tweek said gently, putting a hand on Craig's thigh. "I think we're alright."

"You interrupted my speech." Craig was cute when he pouted, which was subtly done and rare. "I was going to say, I think that for the good of everything, I should. Be. Be on top, as they say."

"Well,  _duh_." Tweek snorted. "It's  _definitely_ too much pressure to top."

Craig smiled at him, looking at him through his eyelashes. Tweek's heart picked up, the reality settling in, a weird little hum that wasn't the heating in the air.

"How do we start?" Craig asked.

"I think we already did, didn't we?" Tweek asked. "We just—kiss, right? And go from there?"

"Yeah," Craig said. "We kiss."

"We kiss."

Craig leaned into Tweek and touched his lips to his, with a hesitance and gentleness Tweek had never actually known from Craig. Tweek replied in full, tonguing his way into Craig's mouth and drawing his leg up onto the bed so they could face each other, gripping Craig's head with both his hands. The music rolled over itself:  _that in my pearls, in my diamonds, I've climbed the cloud, now I store the moon, Harlem River, all because of you_.

Pulling away from Tweek Craig said, "Yeah," and he reached down to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

"I want to do that," Tweek said, stopping him. "I want to—" and he popped a button off the shirt by accident, watched it fly through the air. "Oh, fuck!"

"It's fine," Craig said. "It's my shirt, not the tux place's. It's fine."

Tweek noticed Craig was shaking—and maybe Tweek was, too. "Oh, Craig," he said, pressing a hand against the cool expanse of Craig's half-exposed chest. "Oh, Craig, we don't have to do this."

"I  _want_ to, Tweek!" Craig said, his eyes dark. "I want to—so fucking badly—ever since—ever since—"

"I know, I know." Tweek kissed Craig's collarbone and undid the next button, much more gently, this time not breaking it. "I know."

All buttons on Craig's shirt undone and they were facing each other shirtless, just in their dress pants and socks. Tweek tugged his socks off and then undid the button on his pants, though not the zipper. When that was done he reached back over to Craig, tugged him more into the center of the ridiculously large bed.

"Let's take the comforter off," Craig said.

They did; underneath the deep black comforter, the sheets were white. In that sea of white Tweek felt strangely calm, zen, focused, and he and Craig laid down with their heads on the mattress, looking at each other.

"May I tough your penis?" Tweek whispered, hoping Craig would laugh. He did, and whatever residual tension was wound up in Tweek's body let loose, flowing like a river over the sheets.

He undid Craig's pants and pushed them down. Craig was wearing blue boxer-briefs, and wasn't hard, though that didn't bother Tweek since Tweek wasn't, either. He cupped Craig outside his underwear at first, scooting closer so that every inch of their bodies that could touch were touching, their noses rubbing against each other. Tweek squeezed, kissing Craig, and felt Craig start to harden in his hand.

Craig moved his own hand between them, feeling for Tweek, and Tweek shoved his pants over his own hips. They ground their hands and their hips against each other, and Tweek thought: if this were it, if it were all, it would be alright. To kiss, and to touch, and to love, and to not think about it, to not worry about the greater implications and the spiraling universe. All he could smell was Craig, the scent coming off his neck, reddened from Tweek's earlier sucking. As if Craig had read his mind Craig started to kiss down Tweek's neck, to nip at that place where neck meets shoulder, and he rolled Tweek onto his back, placing his knees on either side of Tweek's hips. Tweek tugged Craig's pants and underwear down, running his hands lightly over Craig's cock, not trying to get him to come, just wanting to feel him.

"I need to—help you," Craig said, sitting up. He kicked his pants off and then removed Tweek's from around their ankles, and they were fully naked now, all hairless thighs and pink nipples and hard cocks. "Prep you. 'Cause it will hurt, if I don't."

"Yeah," Tweek said. He knew this, vaguely, having pieced it together from what encounters with gay porn he'd had. But porn was scary, uncomfortable, and Tweek did not care to watch it. So he was not surprised, exactly, when Craig sucked on his own fingers and then moved them down to Tweek's ass, feeling, his lips pursed in that concentrated grimace, but Tweek was still surprised. Surprised at how he flexed in response, how his dick jumped when Craig snuck just the tips of fingers in, how Craig seemed to be practically on the verge of tears. "Craig, kiss me," he said, practically croaking, because he wanted it, and he knew Craig did, too.

As if he were a puppet on Tweek's string Craig lowered down and kissed Tweek, pushing two fingers into the knuckle inside of Tweek. Tweek grabbed at the bedsheet, biting down on Craig's lip so hard he drew blood. "Aw, fuck!" he said, against Craig's mouth. "I keep—I keep fucking up, I'm sorry, Jesus, Craig—"

"Shh, shh." With his free hand Craig wiped the blood away from his mouth, then entangled his fingers with one of Tweek's hands. "It's fine. It's perfect. You're doing great. I'm going to—I'm going to like, fuck you with my fingers, okay? And then that'll get you ready?"

"Is that how it works?" Tweek said, his voice now a sob, a wrecked version of itself. "I don't know, Craig. I want this so much. I'm scared."

"It's okay," Craig said. "I'm scared, too."

"I love you," Tweek said, tears at the corner of his eyes. "I really love you."

"I know. I know." Craig started to move his fingers in and out, and Tweek bit down on his own lip this time, so not to scream. Craig hit—something, inside him, and Tweek exploded like a gunshot, his come pumping onto Craig's stomach. "Well," Craig said, sounding as if he'd just seen a particularly cute guinea pig, or something. Sounded awed. "That."

"That," Tweek parroted, thinking: I am in existence just to do this, just to lay here and move with Craig, I am here for this, I am here for this, this is why I am living. Broken, nonsensical half-thoughts, and a universe undulating in constant creation and expansion. "Please, Craig—just—fuck me now," he said. "I don't care if it hurts, I really don't, I just need this, now, please. Forget the lube, just use your spit, like you did, just—I'm going to die, I'm going to die if this doesn't happen, right now—"

The words kept coming, every single plea Tweek could think of, unsaid throughout the night and rolling off his tongue. Craig propped himself up with the arm that had been holding Tweek's hand, and then pulled his hands from Tweek's hole and moved his body so that he could slide his cock in. He spit in his palm, Tweek's thighs quivering, and then guided himself in with his hands, his head down towards Tweek's cheek, every muscle in his body suspended as he did this one thing. It was as if he were dissecting a bomb, or putting two very small pieces of a model ship together, or working on a rocket's engine—such concentration, such dedication. Tweek did his best to help, to relax—the orgasm had certainly helped, whatever advice Craig had gathered correct—but he could not stop himself from seizing and curling like a comma when Craig had moved the head of his cock in, breaking through to the shaft.

"Are you okay?" Craig whispered, moving his head so he could look at Tweek. Sweat had started to collect along his hairline. "Is this alright? Do I—what do I need to do?"

"Just keep going," Tweek panted. "Jesus." He moved his hips, trying to get more of Craig inside him.

Another slow, long minute, and Craig  _was_ inside of him, fully, stars and fireworks and everything else they always said you would feel. The song changed, of course it did, Craig had timed this perfectly, and this was one Tweek recognized, a Bon Iver,  _up with your turret, aren't we just terrified?_ And Tweek was terrified, was terrified of the pleasure and the love that filled all his pores with fire, that had caused Craig to close his eyes, a vein visible in his forehead, his jaw tense.

"Are you okay?" Tweek asked, putting a hand on Craig's face.

"I'm trying," Craig said. "I'm trying not to—"

"Just do it." Tweek tried to make his voice as soft as possible, though it still came out as breathy and jagged as he was feeling, his heart hammering a war drum in his chest. "Let go, Craig."

Craig snapped his hips once, twice, and then stopped, nestling his head in Tweek's neck. "I just can't believe it," he sobbed, and Tweek felt hot tears against his skin. "I can't believe it."

"I know," Tweek said. He was crying too, now, fuck—"Me neither."

"I just want to  _wreck_ you," Craig said. "I just want—"

And how ridiculous a picture, these two boys in this beautiful hotel room, playing pretend—pretending they weren't each other's doings and undoings, that their souls were not made of the same star stuff, that they were not so completely each other's they could not set themselves apart. That they kept saying  _I just_ and  _I want_ like they did not already have it, laying there for them, ready, having been ready all this time and before there was a time. On some level, Tweek knew this. And perhaps he held the key to unlock this level, and to let this knowledge fly like Pandora's box—but he was not there, and Craig was not there, but they were  _there_ , together, and Craig breathed a wet breath into Tweek's neck and started again, thrusting, and Tweek wrapped his legs around Craig's waist and Craig held onto him as tightly as anything Tweek had ever experienced, squeezing so that Tweek thought his lungs might rise up and out through his throat, and Craig sucked on Tweek's neck in time with his thrusts, and then there was the explosion, the climax, the orgasm, Craig pumping into him, his mouth an open vent on Tweek's neck, rivers of tears flowing on both their faces.

"Stay," Tweek begged. "Stay in me."

"I never want to leave," Craig said, and his voice was just as ragged as Tweek's, detached syllables bumping along to form themselves into words, a sentence. "I—I can't even—there's not  _words_."

They let themselves loose, floating back into the bed, Craig's weight half on Tweek and half on the mattress, Craig still half inside Tweek. Tweek realized he'd been digging his nails into the skin of Craig's back and while he kept his hands there, he unstuck his fingers, smoothing them over the crescent moon cuts he'd left behind. Marked, wrecked, they both were.

"Where do we go from here?" Craig said on an exhale.

Tweek recognized it as a question he was not supposed to answer.

Things come to a conclusion; both unwilling to move, they did not. Craig did, however, eventually pull out, and Tweek emptied on the bedsheets, his own come dry on Craig's stomach. They smoothed each other's hair over and over, counted eyelashes, pressed noses, wiggled fingers and toes as if they were just becoming aware that they had bodies. The soft music kept playing, all blending into the same hum,  _Harlem River, I'm in love, love, love, love._


	11. Chapter Ten: Dead in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've upped the rating to an M because, upon rereading, the sex scene in this chapter is pretty detailed. however, after this chapter there's no detailed sex scenes left in the fic. 
> 
> this was another chapter that required basically just grammar fixes! i'm rather fond of it as well, moreso than the previous chapter, which received such a good response i would like to again say thank you guys so much ♥
> 
> title from dead in the water by noel Gallagher.

With the curtains drawn shut over the floor-to-ceiling windows, the room at the Harlem River hotel existed outside of known time and space. Tweek woke the next morning feeling hungover even though he hadn't been drinking. He and Craig were tangled in each other, legs and limbs all entwined, Craig on his back and Tweek on his side, still naked, Craig snoring lightly. After they'd lost their virginity they'd held each other and snuffled and wiped away tears, fading into an exhausted, deep and dark sleep.

Tweek moved himself off Craig as gently as possible, putting his feet on the floor and padding along softly and with deliberate care as to not make noise. It wasn't hard; Tweek was lightweight, light-footed. He found a shirt on the floor—judging by the way it hung off him, it had to be Craig's—and pulled it on, then fished a pair of boxers from the duffel bag, unzipping it painfully slowly. He went to the bathroom next, dying for a piss and getting his first good look at the stupidly large room. There was a giant bathtub with several jets, looking more like a hot tub, sunk into the floor. Its rim was black, flowing into the hardwood floor. Tweek felt sticky and sore and itchy and in need of a shower, but he'd ask Craig if he wanted to test the bathtub out with him whenever Craig woke up.

Next Tweek went to the windows, peeking around the curtain. Judging by the height of the sun in the sky it was early morning. The glass was cool to the touch, indicating that that late-May cold snap hadn't left with the moon, and Tweek laid his head against if as if he were nursing a headache, gazing out at the view of downtown Denver. A Sunday morning, there were few cars on the roads, everybody asleep in their condos or their hotels, the city putting off starting for a few more hours. The burst of blue dawn; a sight Tweek had been familiar with, but now with his afternoons spent at the shop instead of his mornings, was starting to lose.

He sighed, deeply. He ached; he supposed that was to be expected. Not knowing what else to do he went to find his phone in his pants pockets, checking his messages. His group chat with Clyde, Token and Craig—mostly used by them, rarely used by Tweek—was aflame; there'd been some drama at the afterparty that escalated to Clyde and Stan getting in a fistfight, and Token had apparently actually hooked up with Wendy. Tweek's eye twitched. He had been made new again last night, but it was a private thing shared between him and Craig, as nobody else knew that they had not been physical for so long. He could not share this news; he could not explain. He tried to force himself to be happy for Token, knowing that he'd had a  _thing_ for Wendy forever, but all he could think about is what he would say to Craig whenever Craig woke up. He did not text back.

Feeling he'd go crazy in this room, overstimulated by its beauty and by everything else, Tweek buttoned up the shirt and pulled his own suit pants back on. He put his hair back in a bun, all wild and poking out from the night previous, and exited the room in socked feet with a painfully slow closing of the heavy door. He left a note for Craig, scrawled on the hotel-provided pad of paper with the hotel-provided pen:  _went down to get coffee don't worry! tweek! XOXOXOXOXXOXOXOXO!_ Tweek had strangely good handwriting, one of the only controlled things about him.

The lobby was empty except for a receptionist, a different person than had been working last night. When Tweek walked to the coffee bar the guy said, "We have a continental breakfast on offer."

"Ah—ah?" Tweek turned to look at the guy.

He smiled. "Down the hallway, in our dining room. Free breakfast for the guests. Goes until 9." He gestured with his thumb.

Tweek followed the directions and found a dining room indeed, a ridiculously large chandelier in the center, buffet tables pressed up against windowed walls and soft, high-backed black chairs. He took a bran muffin and made himself a cup of coffee. The other people in the room seemed to be businessmen or other such professionals, sitting alone at their tables and reading their newspapers. The sight bothered Tweek. He felt as if everybody knew, as if he had come stains on the back of his pants, or something, and they were ignoring him with purposeful disdain, the lost gay urchin child that he was. There was something sinister about their fat hands with their trimmed nails, and the way their glasses caught the light, shielding their eyes.

He drank the coffee and ate the muffin as quickly as possible and then fled. He took the stairs up instead of the elevator, yearning for the burn in his chest and his calves that came with physical exertion. His heart was beating as fast as it ever had, every sensation he could have felt at the moment reduced to his heartbeat, thrumming and singing and screaming inside of him. When he got to his floor he stopped, his hands on his thighs, breathing heavily and loudly. Terror had grabbed him around the waist, and he was reminded of late night dashes to the kitchen as a child, getting a glass of water in the dark and fearing the windows with their curtains pushed open and their proffered glimpse into the dark outdoors.

Craig was still asleep when Tweek reentered the room. Tweek looked at the note he left, wondering if he should throw it away now that it was no longer needed. It felt important, the care with which he had written those X's and O's. He decided to leave it on the bedside table and walked to the seating area with the television, curling up on the couch with his phone plugged into the outlet built into the coffee table. He scrolled through his Tumblr dashboard, his actual blog a messy and disorganized collection of aesthetic, the terror that had developed on his run up the stairs still present and twisting around in his chest.

Finally, after an hour and a half of agony, Tweek heard Craig stirring in bed. Tweek threw his phone at the ground and looked over, watching as Craig sat up, rubbed at his eyes and then stretched, the room so quiet and still Tweek could hear every joint that Craig cracked. Craig caught Tweek's eye and smiled.

"Morning," Craig said.

"G—good morning," Tweek stammered. He scrambled off the couch and went to the bed. "How did you sleep?"

"Really well." Craig yawned, blocking his mouth with the back of his hand. He left the bed and Tweek watched him from where he was standing, watched the way Craig's long body unfolded and moved, the bend of an elbow, a knee, the curve of his lower back to the soft roll of his ass.

Craig went to the bathroom. Tweek flopped stomach-first onto the bed, listened to the sounds of Craig pissing, flushing, washing his hands. Tweek rolled over onto his back. He felt like he had a brick wrapped around his chest, pressing inwards, and that eventually it would crush his lungs and he would die, and perhaps the death wouldn't be so bad, after all, despite Tweek's immense fear.

"Cool bathtub," Craig said as he left the bathroom. He didn't turn off its light. "We'll have to check that out."

"Yuh—yeah."

Craig returned to bed, still naked, and pulled at Tweek. Tweek sighed and acquiesced, taking his place between Craig's arms. Craig ran his hands through Tweek's hair, taking it out of the bun. "I don't like your hair up," he said. "It looks wrong."

"It gets it out of my face," Tweek said.

"You could just cut it." He laughed when Tweek shook his head emphatically against Craig's chest, his bristly hair scraping against Craig's skin. "Yeah, I know. Then you wouldn't be Tweek."

"I want to take a bath now," Tweek said. "I feel all. Sticky! And gross." He grimaced.

"Yeah." Craig stretched and yawned again, as if he had become too big for his skin overnight and needed more room in which to grow. He rubbed Tweek's head. "That sounds like a good plan. We can take a bath, drop the tuxes off and fuck around. We've got the hotel room for tonight, too."

"But we have school tomorrow," Tweek said.

Craig just looked at him, and Tweek snorted, knowing it didn't matter. "Yeah, like it's gonna be so terrible to miss the last week of school." He was right; this was the last week before exams, three of which Tweek was already exempt from. High school was coming to a close, the door shutting, and though Tweek's future was certain he still felt unsure. He shook his head again, willing the thoughts away, and pulled himself out of Craig's arms.

Tweek headed to the bathroom, Craig following behind him. He started unbuttoning his shirt while Craig went to test out the taps. "This is fucking complicated," he said, fiddling with them, sticking his hand under the water. Tweek stripped completely before Craig finished, rolling his pants slowly over his calves, shivering despite the heat of the room.

They stood, naked, looking at the water, and Tweek laughed—it was absurd, this whole thing. Craig looked at him and smiled; bashfully, if Craig could do so. He put his arms around Tweek, pulled him close, put his mouth in his hair. "Gonna be the best bath ever," he said.

"Wish we had something to put in it."

Craig let Tweek loose and left the bathroom. Tweek heard the zipper of the duffel bag, and when Craig reentered it was with a bottle of bubble bath—the good, expensive shit—and a plastic baggie of Epsom salt. "Ahead of you," he said.

"Jesus, Craig," Tweek moaned. "Are you psychic?"

"No, I just know my Tweek." Craig poured the bubble bath into its cap, measuring it precisely, and dumped it into the water. He swirled the water around with his feet while emptying about half the bag of Epsom salt, and then he lowered himself into the sunken bathtub. "It's perfect," he said. "Come on, babe."

Tweek, pulled by the rope of those words, followed suit. It  _was_ perfect. The bathwater felt silky without being thick, the bubbles tickling his arms. He curled into Craig, though there was ample room for the two of them to sit separately. Craig had put the bubble bath and the bath salt on the floor beside the tub, and now he rubbed his hands up and down Tweek's back, massaging the heels into the knotted, mountainous landscape of Tweek's muscles and spine. Tweek moaned again. The bathtub was so large, Craig's shoulders sitting just above the rim, and the water was coming from more than one jet, filling quickly. Craig reached around to turn the water off and Tweek took a breath, dipping his head under.

Under the water Tweek smelled, heard, felt nothing. Eyes closed, contact points of his body against Craig. Their signals connected. How easy it would be to drown, he thought. A relief; the anxiety would float from his body like blood, swirling around him, rising to the surface. How ridiculous, as well, and he breached the surface, letting out his breath and shaking his head like a dog. Water sprayed across the bathroom floor, across Craig's face.

"How messy," Craig said. He held Tweek's face, wet hands on Tweek's wet cheeks.

Like the bath long ago, where they'd compared leg hair and gotten  _so close_ to something, Tweek felt  _it_  again. The rising tension. The words kept inside of his mouth like a fluttering bird, feathers between his lips, begging for escape. What to say though—what were the magic words? Tweek barely knew himself, barely had a handle on the situation, on the  _intensity_ and  _truth_ of his love. He'd been broken last night, a baby chicklet defying its egg, and now he was lost and looking for guidance. Guidance Craig could not, or  _would_ not, give—instead, he kissed Tweek on the mouth, their heads tilting automatically, knees shifting and arms moving so they could fit together. You could not talk while you kissed. You did not have to think while you kissed. Craig kissed Tweek.

They kissed, Craig's hands digging into Tweek's cheeks and Tweek's hands holding onto Craig's thighs, for so long that Tweek could feel the water turning cold. The air conditioning droned on and Tweek's head buzzed and the faint eucalyptus smell of the good, smooth bubble bath dulled his nose. Tweek's cock rose and the water temperature dipped, a steady thing he could  _feel_ ¸ and he knew Craig was getting hard, too. His tongue ached like when you sucked on a milkshake that was just too frozen to quite drink, and when Tweek finally pulled away, he said, "I—ah—I really don't want to have sex again! I still  _hurt_ , Jesus, Craig."

Craig was slow to respond, his mouth open, his swollen tongue running over his fat lips. His hair had curled slightly off his forehead from the humidity of the room. "I'm sorry," he said, finally. "We shouldn't have just used spit for lube."

Tweek sighed. That was, somehow, the wrong response.

"We can just jack off," Craig offered. He leaned back, took Tweek's hand and led it his dick.

"That'd be nice, I guess," Tweek said absently, the pads of his fingers ghosting over Craig's dick like pressing on a piano without meaning to draw sound from the keys. "But then there'd be come in the water."

Craig snorted. "Come in the water," he repeated. "Like dead in the water."

"We better not  _die_!" Tweek screeched, alarmed.

"Relax, it's a phrase." Craig's eyes were lidded. "And a song, I think. By Noel Gallagher. It means a ship unable to move." His hand still on Tweek's, keeping it by his cock, he ran his fingers over Tweek's knuckles.

Tweek looked at him skeptically, but he grabbed his cock fully. He liked the way Craig gasped, the way it rose in his throat and then died in his mouth, making more of a croaking sound. He liked the way Craig's jaw popped and his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. He liked the goosebumps that would climb up Craig's throat, under his chin.

"We can—take a shower," Craig said, shifting his hips to give Tweek a better leverage. "Afterwards. To get  _clean._ " The smirk he gave made  _clean_  sound like a dirty word. "I'll wash your hair," he said, more through his nose than through his mouth, when under the water Tweek ran his hand over the slit of his cock. His skin felt so smooth, and being unable to see him through the bubbles, what was happening below felt so separate than what was happening above. Like two Craigs and two Tweeks, meeting at the water's surface.

"I want to be clean," Tweek said. "I want you to make me feel clean."

"Yeah, I'll make you clean. Clean like. With bleach. Or some shit. Jesus Christ, Tweek, just—"

With his free hand Tweek grabbed ahold of Craig's chin and tilted him so he could look him dead in the eye. Craig's pupils were fat, his mouth slightly open, and Tweek's brows furrowed with concentration. He kept a grip on Craig's face, moving his thumb over Craig's sharp cheekbone, the place where his jaw receded into his ear and formed a point. Tweek wanted to bite him but he instead kept their gazes connected, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he moved his hand up and down the length of Craig's cock. When Craig came he felt it, and he put his hand over the head, feeling the come move through the water and against his palm.

Craig exhaled, the first time for at least a minute, his chest filling out once more. His eyes started to close and Tweek immediately stopped him, holding his eyelids open with one hand spread across Craig's brow like a starfish. Craig's eyes rolled back in his head, all white and tiny red veins, and they both groaned as if speaking with one voice, from one chest.

"You're—"

"Fucking crazy," Tweek cut Craig off.

"No. No.  _Wonderful_. Can you get your fingers out of my eyes, though?"

Tweek drew that hand, and the hand under the water, back. His body curved, he became aware of an ache in his back, in his wrist. He moved back, leaning against the other end of the tub. He wanted to float—to float from this bathtub and into space, out of existence. He was also hard as hell, feeling himself leaking, and waiting for Craig to approach him, but Craig just sat there with his head back.

"Craig," Tweek said.

"I'll be there," Craig replied. "In a second."

" _Craig_ ," Tweek repeated through his teeth. " _Now._ "

Craig leaned forward and kissed Tweek chastely on the lips, then lowered his head to Tweek's neck, latching on. Tweek shivered when Craig took him in his hands, just  _holding_ him while he bit at Tweek. Less than a day in and sex had become a competition—had become something to prove. All Tweek wanted to prove now, though, was that he was a healthy eighteen-year-old male and perfectly capable of accomplishing a spectacular orgasm, and that he could act as a sexual being, and all Craig was doing was keeping a fist around Tweek's cock while blood coursed through him and his hips moved without his allowance.

"Yeah. Fuck me," Craig whispered, speaking against Tweek's skin. "Fuck my fist. I know you got it in you, Tweek, right? To fuck?" The way Craig's mouth opened and his tongue dragged down Tweek's neck just the bit on the exhalation of  _fuck_ caused Tweek to take a fistful of Craig's hair and tug. "Go on,  _fuck_. Fuck like it's all you have left. You'll top one day. Not today. One day. Now it's just this." Craig had stopped making sense, and had himself straddled Tweek's thigh. Craig's half-hard cock—he'd never lost his erection, and wasn't that amazing?—rubbed against Tweek's, against his own fist, and tears came to Tweek's eyes as his hips moved as fast as his heart, pleasure grabbing his thighs and curling his toes. He pumped, and Craig tightened his fists to the point where it  _hurt_ , and he made sure to kiss Tweek through his orgasm.

"That's my boy," Craig said, still holding Tweek's dick as he came down. "I knew it. I knew you had it in you."

Tweek made a sound that contained a lot of  _n_ 's, a lot of  _gh_ 's. He sank down until the water was up to his nose, realizing that it was pretty cold and starting to feel slimy, though perhaps that was just his imagination. Craig had not relented, pressing his body weight into Tweek. Tweek released his fistful of Craig's hair, shocked when he saw he'd pried some strands lose, black rivers in his palm.

To stay there, in that moment, his cock still thrumming pleasantly, Craig making little half-movements, cool water against his lips and bubbles floating like miniature icebergs with no mind to anything that had just happened—

But that was impossible.

Without speaking they left the bathtub, Craig flipping the switch that would drain it, and tracked water on the floor as they went to the shower. It took forever for Craig to figure this one out, too, and Tweek stood with his arms around Craig's back, hands feeling all around Craig's cock and balls and thighs with no particular aim. When Craig had gotten the shower on Tweek nudged him to the side, until Craig got what Tweek wanted. He backed into the spray of the shower while Tweek got on his knees, taking Craig's dick and rubbing his cheek against it as if it were a creature that needed to be comforted. In a way, Tweek supposed, it was.

"Jesus fuck," Craig said, a special exclamation. "We could do this all day, couldn't we?"  
"Dunno," Tweek murmured. He licked up Craig's length. "I'd get tired."

"Get dirty juts to get clean," Craig said, as if that made sense. One had against the wall behind him, Craig tangled the other hand in Tweek's hair, pulling his head to indicate what he wanted. Tweek, seeing no point in fighting, opened his mouth as wide as possible and let Craig enter.

Tweek had a pretty strong gag reflex, but he fought it the whole time, letting Craig thrust and jut up against the roof of his mouth. Having already come in such a short time, Craig took a while. Tweek enjoyed it, though, hollowing his cheeks, exclaiming his usual  _oh_ 's and  _ah_ 's without meaning to. He kept one hand at the base of Craig's cock, dictating how much he'd let into his mouth, and the other kneading the taut muscle of Craig's ass. He dug his nails in when Craig came, spurts of come hitting the roof of his mouth, and then popped his head off to spit the semen down the drain.

"Suh—sorry!" Tweek said, kissing Craig's softening cock. "Didn't know it'd be so. Gross. Fucking—salty!"

"It's fine, it's fine, it's all good," Craig mumbled. Tweek looked up and saw his eyes had closed, water from the shower running over his face and onto his chest. "Get up here."

Tweek rose and Craig pulled him into the stream of the shower, kissing him. They wrapped up in each other, as they had always been wrapped up in each other, letting the water hit them as they had always let everything hit them. Craig kept on his promise and washed Tweek's hair, Tweek leaning with his head down as Craig massaged shampoo and then conditioner from the hotel's sample bottles into Tweek's head, and then moved down to massage Tweek's shoulders. Tweek tried his best to wash Craig's hair, too, despite the height difference, and laughed as the shampoo lathered around Craig's neck. They bathed each other with a washcloth, taking special care around the other's somewhat sore cocks, making up for all the years they had avoided them during their baths.

Afterwards Tweek was ready for a nap. "The tux shop closes at five," Craig said as Tweek was getting into bed, relishing the feel of the soft sheets and comforter against his nakedness. Craig was checking his phone by the bedside table. "It's half past noon, now. We can sleep for a bit."

"Get in here," Tweek said, holding the mouth of the blankets open.

Craig folded his body in beside Tweek; they locked together like they were machines that had been made solely for that purpose, as they always did—and, as Tweek hoped, they always would.

"I saw that Token hooked up with Wendy," Craig said, speaking into Tweek's damp hair. "Good for him."

"I don't really care," Tweek admitted.

"Me neither, but we have to pretend like we do." Tweek could feel Craig smile. "Because they're our friends."

"Who the fuck needs friends?" Tweek asked around a yawn.

"Oh, baby. Just go to sleep."

They napped until three, then rose and dressed in the clothes they'd packed—Craig in his usual jeans and t-shirt, Tweek in his usual jeans and sweater. "I can't believe how fucking  _cold_ it is," he complained to Craig, who agreed. He offered Tweek his jacket, but Tweek didn't take it, not wanting Craig to be cold too.

From the hotel to the tux shop was a short, fifteen-minute drive. Tweek complained the whole time of being hungry; Craig assured him they'd stop at a café he'd heard was really good on the way back to the hotel. They parked and Tweek tried not to think of what happened the last time he was here, the panic attack, the assault of his senses. He'd not noticed any strong smells, but now that he was thinking about it they all came back: the overpowering blossoming of the flowers planted between sidewalk and asphalt, the oil dripping from another parked car, the greasy smell from a Burger King in the same parking lot. He gagged, raising his hand to his mouth.

"Here." Craig fished in his pockets, pulling out one of his usual mints. "Always prepared," he said, unwrapped it for Tweek and offering it from the palm of his hand. Tweek took it from like a horse eating a carrot, not even thinking about the possibility of people staring at them.

They went into the tux shop. Amber was not working, but an older woman who did not try to engage them in conversation when they handed the tuxes over the counter. They signed their names and left, Tweek stopping on the sidewalk once again.

"I fucking hate that store," he said to an expectant-looking Craig.

"Well, we'll never go back," Craig said. He stuck his hand out and Tweek took it, even though the walk to Craig's car was scarcely another minute.

The café was a nice, subdued place, in a complex with a few other stores. There was a large decal of a steaming coffee cup on the window—a little cliché, but Tweek wasn't about to complain, especially when he walked in the door and into a wall of his beloved croissant-and-coffee aroma. He took a deep breath, and when they were seated at a table he took a napkin and spit the remainder of his mint into it.

"Token recommended this place," Craig said. He'd ordered an ice water and was removing the lemon that had come on the side. Tweek had gotten a latte, a treat, thinking his stomach could handle it. The latte art in the cup was a heart. "He said his parents come here whenever they have  _business in Denver_."

Tweek snorted. "Fuckin' rich people," he said.

"Yeah. I know." Craig leaned back in his chair and smiled.

The café was nice, minimalistic, tan walls and white floors, exposed ceiling beams and black wire chairs. Tweek ordered a ham and cheese sandwich while Craig got avocado toast. The menu was expensive—Craig's toast cost $12—and when Tweek offered to pay his way, Craig denied.

"I want to contribute, too," Tweek said, frowning into his now-empty latte.

"You contribute just by being here," Craig said.

"You know what I mean! You  _can't_ have that much money from Bitcoin."

Craig shrugged. "You'd be surprised."

"Goddammit, Craig!" Tweek twitched, trying and failing to keep his voice down. "Stop being so—mysterious!"

Craig raised his eyebrows. "I thought you liked me mysterious?"

Tweek groaned. "Goddammit," he said again. He twirled a fistful of hair around his hand and tugged. "It makes me feel—useless! When you don't let me pay."

"I've let you pay for years, though, Tweek." Craig frowned. "I want to treat you. It's been rough, lately, and—"

"Just forget it," Tweek groaned. He put his head in his hands, elbows on the table. "Just forget it, Craig. I'm sorry I brought it up."

Craig sighed, his chest fluttering, and Tweek stared down at the table. It was polished, dark wood, modern, and he'd eaten more than half of his sandwich and associated hand-fried chips. The food had been good, and up until now they'd just been bullshitting as usual, and as usual Tweek had to go and fuck it up.

Craig paid at the counter—their entire meal cost nearly forty dollars—and they left. Now close to five in the evening, the sun lower in the sky, it had chilled more. Tweek hugged his arms to himself and Craig draped his jacket over Tweek's shoulders. The smell of coffee had been replaced with the smell of Craig, and Tweek smiled despite himself. Hope was a fragile thing, darting in and out of Tweek's chest like a small creature afraid of the light and ready to return to its burrow at any moment, but for now it had reared its head and lifted it towards the sky.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Warning Signs (That I Have Ignored)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "twin-sized mattress" by the front bottoms. yeah, we're using that song again. and because i'm apparently incapable of writing craig/tweek without using the front bottoms lyrics, there's a reference to yet another tfb song in here. see if you can find it!
> 
> i'll be travelling all this weekend, so the next chapter won't be up until monday. sorry for the slight delay, for which you will probably hate me by the time you get to the end of this chapter. bad timing!

Things should have been different when they returned to South Park. Easier. Better. More free and fluid. They should have felt  _real_ , and Tweek should have felt content and certain that Craig loved him, and the storm that had gathered in Craig's eyes so long ago should have passed. But none of these things happened; the scents stopping Tweek's nose were as strong as ever, Craig's eyes were as impassive as ever, work at the shop as stressful as ever, the shadow people in the corner of his eyes as existent as ever. The only thing that changed was that every time Tweek tried to start a conversation with Craig about this, to get the confirmation he so desired, Craig would shut him up with a kiss and a hand on his cock. They had a lot of sex that week, every possible chance they could get, jumping each other at the first moment alone. In Craig's room; in Tweek's room; in rarely used bathrooms at school; in their cars; on Craig's couch; against various hallway walls; in the back of Tweak Bros., Tweek in his apron and the hairband he wore to keep his hair off his face and out of customer's drink, bent over boxes and sneezing from stirred up dust, the heel of Craig's fist in Tweek's mouth to keep him quiet and Tweek biting down so hard he left bruises the form of human teeth marks. Tweek was sore, raw, sleeping fitfully, but it was not just Craig initiating the contact—every time Tweek saw him he felt the overwhelming desire to feel  _full_ and  _clean_ , despite the near-constant sliminess he felt in his ass, the come stains he was finding hiding on all his clothes. If he'd been keeping his lust for Craig locked away, the weekend at the Harlem River had uncovered and unlocked it from its hiding place, and now all Tweek could do was make up for years upon years of repression.

"You seem different," Dr. Watt observed during their session on the Friday after prom.

"I had sex!" Tweek blurted out, before he'd even fully settled into the couch. Craig had taken him to this appointment, and he put his hands over his mouth, hoping he hadn't heard Tweek shout this from the waiting room.

Dr. Watt raised his eyebrows, but did not respond. Tweek could hear the clock ticking away the awkward seconds on the wall. "With…Craig?" he asked, finally.

"Yes, with Craig!" Tweek looked to the shut door of Dr. Watt's room. "He's outside—we have to be quiet, so he can't hear us."

"Don't worry. These walls are extremely thick, and nobody out there can hear us. That's important for a therapy room." Dr. Watt smiled. "Do you want to tell me more about this, Tweek?"

Tweek recounted the entire experience, starting with his suffering sense of smell and leading up to the Harlem River. He got stuck describing the architecture and décor before Dr. Watt nudged him along to the main event. Tweek did not describe the sex in detail; he simply said that after they'd settled in the room—he skipped out on the part where they smoked weed, as well—they'd gotten intimate. "And we haven't stopped!" Tweek said. He realized he was tugging on his hair with one hand and biting at the skin around his thumb with the other, and ceased both habits. Dr. Watt pointed at one of the stress balls on the coffee table. Tweek took it. "I keep trying to talk to him, you know, but every time we're alone, we fuck!" He twitched. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. I've heard much worse in here than the word  _fuck_." Tweek laughed a bit at that, looking at Dr. Watt skeptically. "He's not—pressuring you to have sex?"

"No, no, of course not." Tweek groaned. "I  _want_ to have sex, believe me, it's pretty great!" He twitched again. "Sorry! Like he knows that I'm some sort of sex maniac and he uses that against me, so we don't have to have a conversation!"

"Perhaps he thinks you guys don't need to talk," Dr. Watt suggested. "And I don't think you're some sort of sex maniac, Tweek. You would have had other symptoms if it were pathological. Instead, I think you and Craig have both been denying your attraction to one another for so long that, in addition to the usual sexual drive of young men your age, you and him are simply…horny."

Tweek winced and squeezed the stress ball in his hand. "Gross," he said. "True, but. Gross."

"My suggestion, as your therapist, is that you be firm next time Craig initiates sex when you want to talk to him. Be firm and have the conversation you need to have. Would you like to practice what you want to say to him?"

Tweek stared down at the stress ball. It was striped blue and orange; upon closer inspection, he realized it was actually a Denver Broncos ball, the logo and team name pressed into the surface. "I guess what I want to say to him is that I love him, for real," Tweek said, barely whispering. "And I want to know that he loves me, too, for real. I want to know…why we got to be the way we are."

"Can you elaborate on what you mean by that for me, Tweek?"

"We've been dating for eight years, Christ." Tweek leaned back in the couch, wishing it could swallow him whole and home. "And it was just a few months ago that I admitted to myself—I'm  _gay_!"

It was the first time he'd said it out loud, the bird that had been living in his mouth for so long finally free and flying. He looked at Dr. Watt, waiting for his face to change, for some acknowledgement by him—or by God, or somebody—that Tweek had admitted this momentous truth.

"I can't think of a girl I ever liked," Tweek said slowly. "The only girl I've ever known is my mom. It's just been—Craig. Forever."

Dr. Watt nodded, face still unchanged. "I'm very glad you admitted this, Tweek. That's a very, very big step in securing your identity. And is that what you're going to tell Craig?"

Tweek nodded.

"Do you think you're ready to come out to anybody else? Your parents, perhaps?"

"The thing is," Tweek said, "everybody else already  _knows_ , and Craig and I thought we were just fooling them for money. We didn't—I didn't think I was actually  _in love_ with him." Tweek groaned. "I knew I loved him. And I wanted to be around him all the time. I just thought—we were friends."

"I'm glad you're telling me this, Tweek. And I want you to promise that you're going to explain this all to Craig. I don't know what to tell you about how this will affect your relationship—frankly, a relationship like yours and Craig's is quite unusual. But I think this is an incredibly important step in working on your recent anxiety. I think your relationship with Craig is a major source of it, actually."

"What else is there?" Tweek asked. "Besides Craig? Because Craig can't be all of it! I feel better when I'm with him."

"Well, we've discussed graduation and moving to Denver." Tweek nodded in agreeance. "And I believe your relationship with your parents, as well. How has that been going, since you started working in the evenings?"

"Better! We still don't talk a lot. But! Maybe? They don't hate me?"

Dr. Watt smiled. "I know they don't hate you, Tweek."

"And the smells? They've gotten worse! Do—do you think they'll get better?"

Dr. Watt nodded, crossing an ankle over a knee. "After you address this issue with Craig and graduate, if your issue with hyperosmia doesn't improve we can consult with your psychiatrist about increasing your anti-anxiety medication dosage. But I would like, instead, to work on it through our behavioral therapy, if we can solve the issue here. The mints work well, correct?"

"Craig gives me the mints," Tweek said, worrying the stress ball in his hand. "I—I don't do that on my own! I never think of it.  _Craig_ does it."

"Perhaps you interpret the mints more as a symbol of Craig's care for you, and that helps you with your smelling?"

Tweek considered it, staring at the still life of the inkpot and quill above Dr. Watt's head, still playing with the stress ball. Eventually, he nodded. "Maybe," he said. "But what if Craig breaks up with me because I tell him I love him?"

Dr. Watt's chest raised a little bit more than usual on his exhale. Tweek noticed these things about people, he thought; he picked up on the signs that they hated him. This did not change his opinion of Dr. Watt, and the therapy he provided Tweek, but it did disappoint him, seeing that his paranoia had gotten to him and started the inevitable process of exhaustion. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," he said. "But please, do not let that fear stop you from talking to Craig. Just remember, Tweek: you need to do this for  _you_ and  _your_ wellbeing."

They passed the rest of the therapy session going over the same fears about the impending conversation with Craig—that he'd break up with Tweek, that he would think him crazy, that he'd have him committed, that his parents would find out that Tweek was actually gay for real and kick him out even though they'd never done that before and then Tweek wouldn't be able to stay with Craig because he'd be mad, too, and Tweek would end up washing himself with soap in a public bathroom. Dr. Watt explained them away methodically, the drone of his baritone voice nearly putting Tweek to sleep at points, just to jerk away when some other vague, half-formed yet utterly ferocious fear came floating towards him.

When he walked out into the waiting room Craig was asleep, his head leaning on the wall against his chair. He did not wake at the sound of the door opening so Tweek walked over to him and nudged one of his Converse with his own foot. This woke Craig up, his eyes blinking the sleep away slowly, and Tweek felt an intense surge of both fear and love run its way through him.

"You done?" Craig asked.

"Stupid question," Tweek said.

Craig yawned. "Guess it was. Let's go."

They walked down the narrow stairs in the building, Tweek behind Craig and thinking about tripping and running into Craig and taking them both to the bottom head-over-heels, breaking their necks and their spines. Craig was humming, but Tweek couldn't place the tune. Craig had been doing a lot of that in this past week, absent humming, sometimes singing to Tweek when they bathed after sex, both sore and tender. It was from their same old repertoire of songs, the words repeated over and over so much they'd lost their meaning, as least to Tweek.

The strange cold that'd creeped in last weekend was gone, the full strength of May hitting Tweek in the face upon opening the door and making him squint. Craig whistled, taking his sunglasses from where they'd been hanging on the front of his shirt and sliding them on.

"Climate change, man," he said, standing still and waiting for Tweek to take his position beside him. "This isn't normal. Something needs to change."

"You're right!" Tweek said.

"Damn right I'm right." Craig smiled and took Tweek's hand, his cool skin a luxury in this heat. They walked to the car like this.

In the car, Tweek curled up in his seat and put his head on Craig's shoulder. The A/C in Craig's car took forever to actually cool, and Tweek had been bugging Craig to fix it with his money, but Craig said that he'd dried up recently. Tweek was sure it was because of the hotel trip, but he didn't say anything, not wanting to fight about  _that_ , of all things. But the warmth made him sleepy, and with his head nestled into the softness of Craig's various well-worn t-shirts, it was easy to drop into a dead-of-summer nap. Tweek slept the entire way to South Park, not dreaming, feeling as if only a second had passed when he woke.

They were at Tweek's house; it was as if his parents and Craig had arranged a custody agreement. Tweek had Friday's off at the shop so he could attend his therapy session, the house empty and waiting for them to fill it. As usual they were on each other as soon as their shoes were off. Craig kissed Tweek's way to the couch, pulling him on his lap, their foreheads pressed together. Tweek looked at Craig's waiting mouth and pulled back when Craig tried to close the distance.

"Hmm?" Craig asked when Tweek evaded him again. He rubbed Tweek's hip, fingers just inside of the waistband of Tweek's jeans.

"We need to talk," Tweek said. He sat back on Craig's lap, taking Craig's hand from his waistband to hold it in his own. He was starting to shake a little. "For real."

"What about?" Craig's eyebrows knitted together, and he squeezed Tweek's hand. "Was it something from therapy?"

"No! Well, yes, but no!" Tweek pinched his mouth up. "And don't—what would it matter, if it were from therapy?!"

"I didn't say anything about it being from therapy, Tweek. I just wanted to know if something came up. Relax." Craig's eyebrows smoothed out, and Tweek thought he heard annoyance in his voice. "Just tell me what you want to talk about."

"I want to talk about—this!" Tweek gestured to himself on Craig's lap, to their crotches. "About—Jesus, Craig, why are we  _fucking_ so much?"

Craig burst out laughing, shaking Tweek in his seat on Craig's thighs. Tweek waited for him to stop. A ball of energy had formed in his chest, swirling, attracting all his fears and hesitations and discomforts to grow in mass. Tweek swallowed, hoping to keep it down. When he stopped laughing, Craig said, "Uh, because we're  _horny_?"

Tweek sighed. "Because we're horny," he said. He was starting to develop a serious distaste for that word.

"Yeah." Craig sounded confused. He took his hand from Tweek's and bopped him on the nose. "What answer did you expect?"

"Not because you  _love_ me?" Tweek blurted.

"Tweek, of course I  _love_ you," Craig said patiently, now rubbing along Tweek's jawline. "But what does that have to do with sex?"

"It has everything to do with sex, you fucking idiot!" Tweek wrung himself from Craig, throwing himself on the opposite end of the couch. He already regretted calling Craig a fucking idiot, not meaning it, but—you don't say shit you don't mean, right? Some tiny part of you had to believe it? Perhaps, Tweek thought, it was the influence of the other Craigs and Tweeks—perhaps they were all fighting, and perhaps some of them hated each other.

"Tweek, honey, I'm confused," Craig said.

"No shit," Tweek spat.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—it's not right, Craig. What we've been doing. That we've been fooling everybody to our advantage. And—" Tweek swallowed. "We need—to stop."

"Well, fuck everybody else. They stopped caring forever ago. And we don't care about them, right?" Craig went to come to Tweek again, but Tweek put his feet up, blocking him.

"That's not what I mean."

"What do you mean, Tweek?"

"If I don't leave now, then things will always be this way."

"Huh?" Craig cocked his head. He looked like Tweek had actually kicked him. "Leave?"

"Yeah,  _leave_ , Craig. Leave you. Craig—I'm fucking  _gay_ , okay? For real. A hundred percent homo-fucking-sexual."

Craig didn't say anything, just looked down at his hands, his face contorting into an expression Tweek had never seen before.

"Straight boys don't have sex with each other," Tweek continued, even though his entire body was shaking and his teeth felt like they'd had glue on them, waiting to come together. "They don't kiss, and hug, and take baths together! They don't sing to each other! They don't go to Prom together as a couple! They don't—they don't make plans to live with each other and get married for fucking  _tax benefits_! I don't know what type of cruel game you've been playing, Craig, or what you get from this, but." Tweek had started to cry, still fighting the pressure in his throat and the glue on his teeth and the rolling ball in his chest to say what he needed to say, now failing.

Craig continued staring at his hands, and Tweek watched as the expression on his face smoothed out again until he just looked up at him with the same apathetic eyes as always. Tweek wanted to punch his irises and watch them shatter, ice on a lake. But winter had passed. Finally, Craig said, "Don't you love me enough to stay?"

"That's the fucking problem, Craig! I  _love_ you!" A sob broke in Tweek's voice like a wave breaking on the water. "I love you—I love you like a  _boyfriend_ , I love you like a  _partner_ , I love you in a completely, totally gay way. I am  _in love_ with you." Tweek wrought the words out, feeling their truth from the pit of his stomach. "Can't you  _see_? Have you been pretending that you didn't know this whole time? Craig—we  _have sex_! We're gay! If you're not gay—if you're not in love with me—"

"I thought you understood," Craig said, softly.

Tweek waited for him to say more. He didn't.

Tweek waited for him to say more, anything more. He would have welcomed spite, anger, would have loved to battle this out and smooth it all over. His mother's fancy Cuckoo clock that spat out ice skaters in the winter and roller skaters in the summer ticked, far too slow to match Tweek's heartbeat. The air conditioning throbbed quietly, cold air running through the house like the blood that was running—no,  _sprinting_  —between Tweek's ears and his gut. Craig just sat there, not moving, looking down at his hands in his lap, and Tweek wanted to scream, wanted to scream at Craig and more so wanted to scream at himself.

"This is my house," Tweek said, after a while.

"So?" Craig asked his hands.

"So…I can't leave! You have to leave!" Tweek kicked his feet, though he knew they wouldn't reach Craig. He just wanted to get the energy off, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Without anything else to say, Craig left. He didn't bother to pull on his shoes, either, just walked out of Tweek's house in his socks, slamming the door shut beside him.

Tweek screamed, then. He took one of his mother's stupid throw pillows and screamed into it, the stiff material coarse against his cheek. He screamed until he ran out of breath, sucked a lungful, and then screamed some more. By the time he had finished his bangs had matted to his forehead with sweat and his throat burned like he'd swallowed fire ants.

A few minutes passed, Tweek breathing heavily and staring at nothing, trying to think of nothing. And instead he thought of everything. He thought first of Craig's eyes, and then he thought of Craig's hands—Craig's hand covering every inch of his body, all at once, everything on fire and burning and billowing smoke as they'd done. He thought of the fading bruises on Craig's hand, a result of Tweek biting at him like a rabid dog, and by God did Tweek feel like a rabid dog, his legs kicking without his control and his nails digging into his palms and his glued teeth trying to gnash. He thought of Dr. Watt, and bridges to cross when you got there, but this bridge had plummeted into the sea, and on the other side was Craig, on the other side of the door, the town, the world,  _the universe_ was Craig—and Tweek was a yang without a yin, a swirling sea with no dam to keep him in, a boat whose anchor had broken and now came unmoored on the water's surface. Dead in the water, forget that—Craig might be motionless, but Tweek was  _all_ motion, and his thoughts had become less cogent and consistent and more wild flashes of imagery and feeling and  _smells_.

And then he screamed again.


	13. Chapter Twelve: To You, From You, To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i injected a lot of my own headcanons into this chapter, ha. but what is writing besides doing that?
> 
> sorry again for the small delay, i was travelling this weekend. the update schedule will resume, and the next chapter will be out on wednesday. we're in the final stretch now! these last chapters are pretty lengthy, though. i've also updated the tags.
> 
> title from two men in love by the irrepressibles.

Tweek's mother found him on the couch with the pillow over his face. He'd not fallen asleep but had instead stared at the ceiling for the last two hours, eyes periodically filling with tears and then drying out. He had fistfuls of his own hair in his hands, which were now too tired to curl, the only reason he had not pulled out more.

His mother called into the house when she entered—his father was gone, probably still at the shop, finishing out the week—and when Tweek tried to respond, he found his voice had left him.

"Oh, honey," she said, rushing to his side. "What happened?"

When Tweek had gone through the period of removing his own voice, he'd learned some sign language. Just enough to get by, enough to communicate his basic needs in the days his throat needed to heal. He raised his hands, his hair falling on his chest, and signed with tired, weary fingers, "Craig and I fought." He had a special sign for Craig, a kind of nickname, so he wouldn't have to spell the letters every time he signed his name. It was an amalgamation of the signs for rocket ship and for boyfriend.

"And you lost your voice?" his mother placed a hand on his forehead. "You're a little feverish."

Tweek nodded. "Water?" he signed.

"Of course." His mother went into the kitchen; Tweek heard the sounds of the ice machine in the fridge, the tap water running. A series of comforting, domestic sounds, that felt miles and miles away, that he felt he was hearing on a tin can and a string. He drank the whole glass when she handed it and tried to speak again, hoping it would have lubricated his throat sufficiently, but only croaks came out. "Don't try, you know not to," his mother said. "I'll make you soup later, okay? I can't call the doctor, it's a Friday evening. Hopefully you'll be better come Monday, and I won't need to."

"Tests," signed Tweek.

"Hmm?" his mother cocked her head, the information processing behind her eyes. "Oh—your exams! What days are they are?"

"Tuesday and Wednesday."

"They're just written, right?"

Tweek nodded.

"Then you should be fine, sweetie. Are you tired?"

He signed, "Fingers hurt," at first, and then realized what she was asking. "Can't sleep."

"I can give you a Benadryl, but—how much caffeine have you had today?"

"Not a lot," Tweek signed, his hands quickly giving out on him. It was true; he hadn't any caffeine in hours, and when he went to the bathroom before going to bed, it should all drain out. "Pill, please. I want to sleep."

His mother went into the kitchen again, all the same sounds repeating, though this time Tweek heard her get the medicine box from the top of the fridge. The rattle of the pill bottles terrified Tweek, irrationally. He carried his anti-anxiety meds in a baggie in his wallet like a drug addict, and he took them every morning upon waking up. His mother came back with the little pink tablet and he took it with another full glass of water. Then he let her come up the stairs with him, let her wait in his room while he went to the bathroom, let her pull the blanket over him when he slid into his bed. She kissed his forehead, smoothed out his hair—it was a good thing Tweek had so much, the missing strands not even noticeable—and pulled the blinds shut on the window. Late May, the sun hung in the sky for far too long. His mother turned on the fan, turned off the light and left the room.

Tweek tried to cry some more but failed. His eyes felt so dry, his eyelashes crusting together. He wanted to scream some more, maybe, but he felt like he'd swallowed glass, the shards stuck in his throat and he wasn't keen on rattling them around. So, he closed his eyes and counted back from a thousand. He fell asleep on three hundred and ninety-four.

Tweek had thought—expected, even—that Craig would show up at his house that weekend. That he'd walk in like always, say hello to Tweek's parents, apologize to them, and ask to be led to Tweek' sickroom as he had so many times before. He didn't expect an apology, really; he expected an explanation. He expected certainty. He did not think that Craig wouldn't show, that he wouldn't respond to his texts, that Token and Clyde would tell Tweek that they hadn't heard from him, either. And Tweek couldn't leave the house to go find him; in addition to losing his voice he'd come down with a change-of-season cold, running a low fever and a snotty nose. He spent his days swaddled in bed, signing to his mother what he needed at the intervals she came into his room, sleeping during her time at the shop. At night he watched Planet Earth II on his laptop by himself, quiet tears rolling down his cheeks. All he wanted to do was show the beautiful vistas to Craig, and to always root for the prey animals to outrun their predators.

Come Sunday evening, some of his voice had returned. He couldn't talk for long periods of times and it hurt, but he could communicate beyond signs, at least. His mother sat on his bed with his dinner—a bowl of potato soup—holding a thermometer in his mouth. She took it when it beeped and said, "Your fever's broken, at least."

"I feel better," Tweek offered.

"You should be all good for your exams on Tuesday." His mother smiled and rubbed his arm. "Do you—do you want to talk about Craig?"

Tweek sighed.

"You don't have to, honey," his mother said. She had possibly the most pitying expression Tweek had ever seen, her brows tight, her mouth pursed, her eyes wide. As he had been these past few weeks, he was struck by how  _similar_ they looked—he was sure he'd given that exact expression to Craig many times. Using his leverage, his advantage. He wondered if she ever used it on his father, and cringed, twisting his fingers into the blanket.

"We just…had a fight," he said. For once in his life, he was too tired to twitch, to exclaim.

"About what, honey?"

"It's complicated," Tweek muttered. He rolled on his side, though not facing away from his mother but curling into her. He would not even know where to begin to talk to his mother about this, and he definitely didn't want to get into the sex stuff.

"Did you break up?"

"No!" The force with which he said this made him cough. His mother rubbed his back while Tweek tore his ragged throat apart, almost expecting blood when he pulled his hand away from his mouth. There was none; he was just being dramatic, he knew.

"Do you  _want_ to break up?"

"No! God." Tweek sighed again, then scrunched his shoulders up. "I—We were faking it, Mom!"

"You were…faking it?"

"Yes! We were faking being gay for money, but." Tweek groaned. "Mom, I wasn't faking it. I'm gay for real. And we started to…do stuff…and I feel like Craig used me." Tweek rubbed at his face. His mother noticed he was crying, of course, and she wiped away the tears with the smooth pad of her thumbs. She went and got a manicure every Thursday with her friends, her hands always soft and her nails always pretty.

"I'm just confused, Tweek," his mother said. "You confuse me so much sometimes. So you were pretending to be together all this time?"

"I guess I stopped pretending a long time ago," Tweek said. "I told myself I still was, but. I wasn't!" he cringed at the involuntary jerk, swallowing back fire. "I don't know what Craig feels. He didn't tell me. He says he loves me, but I don't love him—I'm  _in love_ with him!"

His mother sighed. "There is a difference," she said. "You know, Tweek. I was with another man when I met your dad."

"What?" Tweek had some knowledge about how his parents had gotten together—they were both from South Park, they'd known each other in high school but it wasn't until their twenties that they'd married—but he never heard the full story. He assumed it was boring, the same as everybody else's small-town hick parents, getting engaged because they'd gotten knocked up.

"Yes. He doesn't live in South Park anymore. He was…a bad boy." His mother smiled in a private way. "I thought your father was boring. He spent all his afternoons in Tweak Bros. since your grandfather was getting sick and was priming him to take over the business."

Tweek nodded. His paternal grandfather had died of cancer before Tweek had been born, his grandfather's brother deserting the business and leaving it to Tweek's father. That story he knew well; his father was constantly telling it, trying to relay some message about responsibility and being your own man, or something. Tweek tuned him out whenever he started in.

"Your father and I had been friends since we were little kids, but I guess I never noticed him that way. I was too into Tommy—that was the bad boy's name. He drove a motorcycle!"

Tweek laughed. "Craig talks about getting one, sometimes," he says. "I tell him no! It's  _far_ too dangerous."

"It is! You should have seen the look on your grandmother's face when Tommy showed up to pick me up one night."

They laughed together, and though it knocked around in Tweek's throat, it felt good in his chest, at least.

"What I'm getting to, here," his mother said as they edged out of their laughter, "is that sometimes, you don't know what's right in front of you. Tommy broke my heart, Tweek. I thought I loved him so much, and he was cheating on me and left town with another girl he got pregnant. He told me I was just some small-town hick and I'd never be anything more." She sighed deeply and Tweek felt a band of shame squeeze around his chest—he'd thought those words just himself a few minutes ago, and he knew he still believed them. "Your father was there, and he was so patient. So kind. And I knew that even if I thought I loved Tommy, I knew I was  _in love_ with your father, and I probably had been for a very long time."

"Dad told me a different story," Tweek said, suddenly. The memory that surfaced was painful; he'd heard this when he was gearing up to fight Craig. That had been before he and Craig really knew each other, really became friends. In the days afterwards they had laughed about the stupid set-up, had started hanging out, and the rest was history—except not, because Tweek was still living it, feeling it so deeply in his chest, his ongoing story with Craig. "There was a guy named…Quib?"

Tweek's mother laughed. "Your father has his own version. Yes, he and Quib got into a fight, but I had no idea it was over me! I let him believe it, because sometimes you need to let the man in your life believe things that make him feel important."

"Don't I know that," Tweek said. His mother raised her eyebrows, but she didn't press the issue. "So do you think Craig is like…you? That he didn't realize?"

"I think Craig is very much in love with you, sweetheart." To Tweek's insurmountable surprise, she thumbed at her eyes, glistening tears bubbling along her waterline. "Your father and I are so happy that you found somebody like him. The way he looks at you, and how he takes care of you…We can't be mad that you want to spend all your time with him, can we?" she laughed a little, wet laugh. "Me and your father, we won't always be here, and you need somebody to whom we can…pass the torch, sort of. Somebody we know that will love you unconditionally and always care for you. And even though I tried to fight it, because I  _always_ want you to be my little boy, I guess that that person is Craig." She turned her head down, rubbing her hands against her eyes more forcefully. Her voice had broken, taking with it something inside Tweek as well. "I wish…we had all sorted things out between us earlier. But you'll be out on your own soon, an adult…and maybe we can have an  _adult_ parent-child relationship, now."

"Mom," Tweek said. He sat up and opened his arms. Tweek was not bigger than many people, but he was bigger than his mother, if just by two inches and thirty pounds. She hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I love you. I really do. And! You can tell Dad I love him, too."

"I will," his mother said. "You know he's not too good with this emotional stuff."

Tweek laughed his own little wet laugh.

He and his mother held each other for a few more moments, and then he dropped back into bed, utterly exhausted. His voice had been reduced to barely above a scratchy whisper; he signed that he wanted to sleep some more. His mother nodded and left. Tweek finished the soup, even though it was now cold, and wondered what Craig was doing at the moment. Surely not eating homemade potato soup after a heart-to-heart with his mother; probably in his room, staring at the ceiling, hands knitted together on his stomach. Maybe he was with Ruby. That was the best option.

Tweek had strange, vague dreams about motorcycles and leather jackets, his mother crying and his father fighting a giant faceless man in a football uniform. They were not exactly nightmares, but they weren't pleasant, either, and he woke with the rising of the morning sun on Monday. He tested his voice by going through the vocalizations the doctor had taught him to do so and found that it was mostly back, still a little raspy, his throat still a little sore. He noticed that the bowl of soup on his nightstand was gone; his mother must have taken it in the night, coming in and out like a mouse, the source of Tweek's own light-footedness.

He accompanied his parents to Tweak Bros., feeling good enough to get out of the house. Since he still needed to rest his voice he couldn't work the counter, instead working on taking inventory and stacking the lighter things like paper to-go cups in the backroom. He tried not to think about Craig fucking him here, the roll of his hips and the rustling of the boxes on the floor. It was difficult; Tweek sent him more texts to no response, and finally he texted Token, asking him to meet later.

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough?" his mother asked him when he was about to leave to meet Token, her cool hand on his forehead. His fever had not returned since it broke.

"It'll be fine, Rebecca," his father said. "The boy needs friends."

"I'm concerned, Richard! He has exams tomorrow."

"So? We know he's graduating." His father shrugged from behind the counter, where he was doing paperwork, reading glasses on his nose. It was 3 P.M., the time Tweek would normally start a shift, the shop empty.

"Dad's right!" Tweek offered. "And—look! I can yell, and it mostly doesn't hurt my throat!"

His father laughed at that. Tweek smiled in spite of himself.

"Alright, I guess," his mother sighed. "Try to come home for dinner, okay? I want you to be feeling well for tomorrow."

Tweek shrugged off annoyance—he wanted to protest that he was capable of taking care of himself, but they all knew that was a lie—and left the shop.

When he got into his car and turned it on, the song on the radio was, of course, one that reminded him of Craig. 400 Lux, Lorde,  _I love these roads where the houses don't change_. Tweek bit down on his fist, the sobs coming as sudden as a summer storm, rolling up his back and across his shoulders. He put his forehead on the steering wheel.  _And I like you_ , Lorde sang, and Tweek knew it was true—knew it'd always been true. It was true in every universe, it had to be, and rising from his brief sleepy stint of a cold and laryngitis Tweek was reminded just how  _much_ he loved Craig, wanted Craig. Maybe he didn't  _need_ Craig on an individual level—but he knew that on a cosmic level, every Tweek needed his Craig, and here he was, a lost Tweek swimming alone in a large universe. He wanted Craig; he wanted to choose to Craig. He just didn't know if Craig wanted to choose Tweek, too.

It seemed impossible that Craig be straight. They had never discussed girls; they had never discussed other guys, either. They had never needed to. There was no room for a third party in their relationship. Tweek knew during their back-to-back jerk-off sessions he'd been trying to black out his mind, trying not to think about Craig, and he knew he'd been performing mental gymnastics to justify that. He knew he hadn't had a crush on anybody since before Craig, and that was on a boy on his soccer team during his short-lived third-grade sports stint that he was only just starting to parse as a childhood attraction—he knew he'd never even thought  _through_ the possibility of a romantic relationship when there was Craig. Again, he justified it by them needing to pretend, but people had stopped paying them for being gay, had stopped caring, so long ago. Tweek knew this, had always known it on some level, but Craig—Craig was a mystery as usual. If Tweek could wade through the murky swamp of his mind to discover these truths, surely Craig, whose mind was more a calm lake on a spring day, could as well?

Tweek pulled his puffy face from the steering wheel and started the car. The song changed to something he didn't recognize, lyrics that didn't apply to his own life. He smacked himself in the face and pulled from the parking lot.

He and Token had arranged to meet at Stark's Pond. Token had been in school that day with an exam; Craig was supposed to be, as well, but Token had texted Tweek that Craig hadn't shown. Tweek arrived earlier than Token and sat on top of their normal picnic table, the one Craig had carved his and Tweek's initials into, his knees up to his chest and chewing on his thumb. His scalp was a little tender still from where he'd pulled out his hair, the only thing keeping him from yanking out even more.

"Hey," came a voice. Tweek had gotten so wrapped up in thinking about Craig lying like a corpse in the dark of his room, not going to school, that he'd managed to miss Token's arrival.

"Token!" Tweek screeched. He hopped off the picnic table and wrapped his arms around Token, pulling him into a hug.

"Jesus, Tweek," Token said, laughing. "This is the happiest you've been to see me, like, ever. What's up?" As he pulled away, his light expression and laughter faded into something serious, concern in his voice.

Tweek sighed and sat down on the picnic table properly, though with his back to the actual table. "Craig and I—we fought!" he said.

"Yeah, that's what you said when you texted me. But like, what about, Tweek?"

"It's so complicated," Tweek groaned, putting his head in his hands. "I don't know if you'll understand!"

"I'll try my best." Token sat beside Tweek and rubbed his shoulder. Tweek would perhaps feel awkward—he'd never been as close to Token and Clyde as Craig was, never saw the point when he had Craig—if he weren't so upset.

"I know everybody thinks Craig and I have been gay,  _for real_ , forever," Tweek said. "But—that wasn't true, Token! We were lying. Pretending! To get money."

Token just made an understanding  _hmm_ noise in his throat, though Tweek caught a subtle, confused cock of the head.

"And it'd been that way until—March, I think? And suddenly things were different! Or—I don't know.  _I've_ been in love with him for a long time, I think. We didn't have sex! Everybody thought we did, but we didn't. We just kissed! Closed mouths! No tongue! And then, on Saturday— _we had sex_." Tweek whispered the last part as if he were communicating that they'd performed some ancient ritual, or had eloped; same difference, really.

"Okay, Tweek." Token looked at him. "Let me try and parse this. You and Craig were in a fake relationship for—how long has it been, eight years?"

Tweek nodded.

"But you weren't pretending?"

"I don't know!" Tweek jerked his head up, looking at the sky. It was cloudless, nothing blocking the harsh sunlight, and the vibrant blue sort of burned his eyes. "I think—I accepted it, I think. I just didn't think about it! I never—Jesus, Token—"

"Okay, okay. So you guys didn't have sex, but now you did?"

Tweek nodded. When he looked at Token, sun spots swam in front of his eyes, and he tried to blink them away.

"What made that happen?" Token asked. "Because, like—I don't want to talk about myself, but maybe this will give you some context. You and Craig are kind of, uh, ignorant, to other people. You know I've liked Wendy forever, but she always said she didn't want a boyfriend because it would be a distraction. When we went to prom together, she told me that she'd gotten to a point in her life where she thought she could handle a boyfriend  _and_ her ambitions. Which is cool, right? She's so smart. She told me she liked me, I told her I liked her, and now we're together. I guess what I'm training to say is that things happen for a reason, and communication helps us get to that reason."

"I  _wish_ it were that simple!" Tweek said, acidic jealousy rising in his throat. "I didn't want to tell Craig because—I was afraid he'd leave. Because I don't know if he really loves me." Tweek swallowed, the combination of jealousy and truth like bile.

"Tweek," Token said plainly. "I know that you have a hard time with reality, but are you fucking kidding me?"

"What do you mean?" Tweek whipped his head to look at Token.

"Like, are you fucking yanking my chain right now? Craig loves you more than he loves—I don't know, breathing. I'm pretty sure Craig would give you both his lungs so that  _you_ could breathe. It's actually unhealthy at times. Clyde and I become concerned."

Tweek looked at Token. He looked honest enough; Token was an honest guy with honest features. And, if Tweek was going to admit that he was gay, he was going to admit that Token was handsome. Not that he had any romantic interest in him whatsoever, but something told him Dr. Watt would be proud of him admitting that to himself. "He could be just pretending!"

"Does he act like that when you're alone? You don't even have to answer that, because I know he does."

Tweek was glad; he didn't really want to share the private things, like the singing and the calling Tweek  _baby_  and the baths, with Token. They were too special, like newborn rabbits that needed to be kept under their mother's belly and away from all the harsh realities of the world.

"I think you just need to give him time," Token said. "Craig's never been good with emotional stuff."

Tweek's eyebrows shot up. "Uh, Token? Have you met me? I'm a fucking—living emotion!"

Token laughed. "Well, yes, but I mean, Craig isn't as good with  _his_ emotions. He doesn't acknowledge them, at all. Ever." Token kept laughing, though Tweek didn't; he didn't think this was funny, or a funny thing about Craig, whatsoever.

"I just—I want him to be okay!" Tweek said instead, squeezing his eyes as not to cry. "I want him to be okay."

"Do you want him to love you?" Token asked softly.

Tweek opened his eyes centimeter-by-centimeter, looking once again at Token. "Yes," he whispered.

"So, okay, let me get the straight again. You guys faked being in a relationship."

"Yes."

"At some point, you—Tweek—stopped faking it. Do you know when?"

"No!" Tweek tried to think of a time. "I—I don't know! I realized it a few months ago, though! When we…started to get physical…for real."

"It was a matter of time, I guess," Token said, smiling as if he knew. "And—you guys fought because...you had sex? This is the connection I'm missing."

"I told him how I feel," Tweek said. "For real. I—I went to therapy, and I talked about it, and I guess I just feel used! If Craig doesn't love me, he's just using me for my body!" Tweek looked at his lap. He'd never given much thought to his appearance, or his body in general; he regarded it as a vessel that carried around his sickened, overgrown mind. But he never resented it, and he supposed it served its function, in that he had a working cock and a ready asshole. He never thought himself particularly ugly, either, and Craig had once said he had a  _haughty Germanic opera_ look about him and Tweek pretended to know what that meant. "I—I want a  _real_ thing! Like my mom and Dad, or you and Wendy!"

"Things can be real in more ways than one," Token suggested. "Let's just give Craig some more time. He can't avoid us forever, right?"

Tweek sighed and collapsed in on himself again. "I don't understand why he has to be like this!  _I'm_ supposed be the fucked-up one."

"You may be fucked up, and I'm not going to deny that." Token laughed in a way that made Tweek knew he was supposed to laugh as well, but it felt like Tweek's ability to laugh had left with his voice and not returned. "But you're the strong one, too, Tweek. You have to be strong, to live like you do and still be  _sort_ of normal. We just have to give him time, okay?"

"I hate time," Tweek groaned. "In some other universe I bet the Craig and Tweek aren't going through this. I bet they're happy. I bet they're  _fucking_!"

"You got that stupid multiverse thing from Craig, didn't you?" Tweek could practically hear Token roll his eyes. "Who cares what the other Craigs, Tweeks, Tokens, Clydes, Wendys, whatever, might be doing? We're living in this universe. And in this universe, Craig needs time alone to go through this delayed sexuality crisis, or whatever. Jesus—I cannot believe you guys didn't have sex until  _prom_."

They hung out on the bench a little longer, Tweek telling Token about his new schedule and fragile peace with his parents, Token giving more details about Wendy and relating the fight that Clyde and Stan had gotten into. Apparently, Clyde had spilled beer down the front of both Stan  _and_ Kyle's rental tuxes, but Token thought that maybe Clyde had interrupted a  _serious_ moment between the two at the party. Stan gave Clyde a black eye and Clyde had ordered an Uber from Denver all the way to South Park to take him home, leaving his car and losing about two hundred dollars in the process.

"That sounds like it would've been—a decent party," Tweek said. He'd moved back on top of the picnic table, was lying on his back with his arm shielding his eyes from the bright sky. Token was sitting side-saddle on the table's bench, leaning an elbow on the table to talk to Tweek.

"Yeah. I wish you and Craig would have come to more parties. These people are so ridiculous."

"Craig and I just like being alone together! Parties are—they're so much—pressure!" Tweek laughed on the word  _pressure_ , and it felt nice to laugh at himself. It was followed by an immediate, strong whip of sadness against his stomach, making him cringe. He wanted Craig to hear the laughter. The progress.

"Well, when you two get back together—" Tweek looked at Token, and Token smirked— "you will, Tweek, don't worry. I can't imagine a world without Craig and Tweek, I don't give a damn about how many worlds there are. Anyway, when you two make up, you can start coming to parties. They're not so much pressure if you get drunk."

"Or stoned! I like being stoned better. Craig got some really good weed, from coin!"

Token raised his eyebrows. "Did that really work out for him? I've kept out. It's too unstable. My family has actual stocks."

Tweek snorted, again wishing Craig was here so they could share a  _look_ about Token's unknowing references to his affluence. "We got a room at the Harlem River hotel!"

"Wow," Token said. "I've stayed there a few times. My mother likes it, we've been for her birthday. Did you guys go to the Oak Café?

"Yeah," Tweek said. "It was expensive, and Craig insisted on paying! I wish he wouldn't do that. I don't care if he has coin money now, or whatever."

Token shrugged. "He probably feels inadequate. He's sensitive about his family."

"I know that, Token," Tweek said. "I've been his boyfriend for eight years."

"Have you been, though?"

Tweek just looked at him.

Token sighed and reached out to pat Tweek's arm. "Hey, I'm sorry. I was just joking."

"That was really mean, Token," Tweek said.

Token sighed. "You'll think it's funny in due time, I swear."

Tweek said nothing; maybe he would if Craig came back to him. But he didn't have Token's confidence. To Token, Tweek thought, Craig and Tweek were a guarantee, a universal constant. The sun would always rise and set; it would always snow in February; Token's family would always be rich; Craig and Tweek would always be together in a corner somewhere, touching each other. But to Tweek, he felt like their relationship for the last few months had been a circus elephant perched on a ball, two pencils balanced on top of each other, an infant left unattended at the edge of a chair. Precarious and stretched thin. Ready to fall. So Tweek did not laugh, and he did feel hurt, really.

"Let me know when— _when,_ not if—Craig gets back to you," Token said, standing up. "And—Tweek. It's nice to hang out with you. Clyde thinks so, too. You and Craig should come around more."

He left. Tweek stayed on the picnic table. He thought he should probably go home, study for his math exam tomorrow, but he couldn't imagine trying to focus on math. All he could think of was that Craig must be laying somewhere in a similar manner, feeling the same hurt deep inside. It was as if Tweek's chest had been hollowed out, turned into a valley nestled between mountains and filling with the floodwater of melancholy. What was Craig without Tweek; was Tweek without Craig? Their universe had experienced a disruption, a glitch, and Tweek felt as if this wasn't fixed, everything was going to go very wrong. Best to just—wipe it out, start anew.

Tweek was not suicidal, had never been suicidal. He was terrified of death, actually; terrified of the ceasing of feelings. A part of him  _enjoyed_ the constant anxiety, the physical signs of livelihood. The pain of his heart beating so fast, the ringing in his ears. They kept him grounded. Disorientation, disassociation—those things were awful, terrible, to feel like he was without a body, floating in the nether. He did not feel that way now, but he imagined his soul, torn from his body and floating in the starry void; imagined it groping around, blind, trying to find Craig again.

A strange peace: Tweek knew who and what he was. He knew he was eighteen years old, from a town called South Park, that his name was Tweek but really it was Richard, after his father, and they'd developed the nickname as a way to differentiate between the two, taken not from his jerky tendencies but the fact that his mother used to twist his little elven nose as a baby. He knew he was gay, and that he liked boys, and that he  _loved_ and was  _in love with_ one boy in particular. He knew that had anxiety, severe anxiety, he knew he could be paranoid and hallucinate. He knew he needed medicine and therapy, would likely always need medicine and therapy. He knew he had hobbies and interests, nature and modern and contemporary art, Nintendo games and piano music, smoking weed and drawing floorplans. He knew these things about himself; he had to know himself, had to spend so much time inside his own head, in the constant fight with his mental illness.

And because when you had to  _pretend_ to be somebody's lover—even if you realized you actually hadn't been pretending—you had to learn everything about them, Tweek knew Craig. He knew that Craig liked thinking about outer space and the universe, that he liked the steady rhythm of math problems. He knew Craig had a bigger heart than what he showed, that he loved to care for other things, from his long deceased and still missed guinea pig to his mess of a boyfriend. He knew Craig struggled, but he knew Craig didn't have to address himself and his thoughts and went out of his way to do so. He did not know if Craig was gay; he thought so, because it wouldn't make sense otherwise. He did not know if Craig was in love with him; he wanted to think so, because it would be too painful to think otherwise. And even if Token had been sort of a dick, what he'd said made sense—perhaps Craig's eyes were always so impassive, so neutral, because being in a state of caring for and loving Tweek  _was_ his neutral state.

Tweek had to trust in the time that he hated so severely. He had to get off this picnic bench and drive home, study for his math exam, and wait. He had to drink the hot tea his mother would make him to ease his throat, and he'd have to study up a little more on his sign language, because he'd noticed he'd gotten rusty and needed to be prepared for the next nonverbal episode he might experience.

When Tweek had started learning ASL at the suggestion of a therapist, way back in middle school, he and Craig had sat at the Tweak's dining room table with the textbook Tweek's parents had bought between them and a YouTube series on learning signs playing in front of them. They'd learned together, guiding each other's hands. Craig had said it was important to him, to be able to share every language Tweek could speak.

The first thing they had both learned to sign was  _I love you_.

Tweek thought it was a joke; he'd been laughing, red-faced, and so had Craig, when they'd both did it, facing each other with knees touching in the dining room on an afternoon when they were both twelve. And they'd signed it before they'd both said it out loud, and they'd  _meant_ it when they signed it, because the laughter had stopped immediately and they'd sputtered non-words into non-sentences and turned to start learning how to sign things like  _hello_ and  _goodbye_.

With his teary eyes closed, Tweek felt his hands signing  _I love you, rocket ship boyfriend_  to the sky.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Bring Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i'm two days late. what happened was that my onedrive file storage thing fucked up (as it always does) and without realizing it, i lost everything past the first two scenes of this chapter. so i had to rewrite it all, which ended up being about 3,500 words. that's really not a lot, but it KILLS my motivation when i lose work.
> 
> anyway, to make up for this little hiccup, i'll be posting the next chapter (which is the longest one by far, and a bit of a doozy) tomorrow (which for me is saturday.) the epilogue will then go up on sunday, and we'll be finished! i'll save my getting weepy over finishing this fic for sunday, but i'm starting to get pretty weepy. just want to throw a thank you out there right now to everybody that's been reading and leaving such lovely comments.
> 
> chapter title from "sweet creature" by harry styles.

After his cold cleared up and his throat healed as well as it could, the nauseating hurricane of smells Tweek had been living in for weeks returned. He sat in his math exam with two mints in his mouth, one in either cheek, trying not to gag as he ran his way through equations. He knew Craig was supposed to have an exam today, too, but he hadn't seen him in the parking lot, his space empty. Perhaps his exam was at a different time; that was what Tweek tried to tell himself, anyway. He had no idea how he answered the math problems, jotting down random numbers as fast as he could, the first person to hand the test into the teacher before darting out of the bathroom to gag over a bathroom sink. Nothing came up. There was nothing to come up—Tweek had been living on soup, water and black coffee the past few days.

A urinal flushed from somewhere in the bathroom; he whipped his head around, hoping it'd be Craig. It was not, but it was somebody he knew: Clyde.

"'Sup," Clyde said, coming to the sink. Tweek wondered if he was washing his hands only because Tweek was standing there. "Are you sick?"

"It's the smells!" Tweek yelped. "There's  _so many_ of them."

"I don't smell anything. Besides bathroom funk, I mean." Clyde beat the soap dispenser for the last dregs of the foamy soap; the antiseptic scent hit Tweek and he swallowed down another gag, this time tasting the chicken broth he'd had at breakfast.

"Your eye is healed," Tweek noticed.

"Oh, yeah, that's been gone for a while." Clyde lathered his hands, washed them, then shook them out over the sink. He did not get a paper towel, instead drying them on his jeans. "Stan looks so strong, but he's a shit fighter. Such a fucking pussy."

"Mmmhmm," Tweek said, not sure of the veracity of those statements. He didn't know Stan that well, but he had thick arms and seemed willing to stand up for himself, or at least his friends. "Have you heard from Craig?"

"Nah," Clyde said. He leaned against the sink. "Token said not to be worried, though. He said Craig probably just needs some time to cool down after your fight."

"Did he tell you what we fought about?"

"Yeah. That sounds complicated as shit, Tweek." Clyde sighed. "It'll be fine, though. Craig can be a pussy about things. He'll come around." He patted Tweek's shoulder with a damp hand. "Gotta go. I'm supposed to be in my Chem exam, I just took a piss break."

Clyde left Tweek standing in the bathroom. One of the yellow fluorescent lights was flickering overhead. Tweek looked at himself in the mirror; he looked even more gaunt than usual, the strange lighting deepening the shadows on his cheeks, the dark spots under his eyes. His freckles, which normally started to come out this time of year, were still in their winter fade. He and Craig had not started visiting amusement parks on the weekend, or swimming in Token's pool, always forgetful about sunscreen. Tweek freckled but Craig burned so easily, and Tweek would rub aloe lotion on his back and help him peel off the flaking skin he couldn't reach while they spent their nights together in Token's air-conditioned guest bedroom with the big bed with the white sheets, always cool to the touch. That was gross, peeling Craig's skin, Tweek supposed, but he thought that maybe love was doing the gross things for each other.

Although Tweek had been sleeping well due to a steady supply of cold medicine and exhaustion, that was beginning to wear off. Worry and insomnia were rolling in like fog in the evening after an overcast day. He ran the faucet and splashed water on his face, trying not to cry.

Wednesday ended, and with it Tweek's exams. He worked at the shop in the afternoon, taking orders and mixing drinks, and then in the evening he returned home. He moped around aimlessly, listlessly, half-listening to old music and half-watching old movies, thinking constantly of Tweek alone in his dark room like a vampire sleeping in his crypt during the day. He wondered if Craig was crying; he tried to think if he'd ever seen Craig actually cry. Every time he drifted into sleep, he was woken by vague, violent dreams of falling down stairs and crashing cars, breaking necks and spines and losing limbs.

Thursday was more of the same. He tried to play some Stardew Valley, the game always cheering him up and calming him down, but even starting a new save file didn't take his minds off things. Besides, Sebastian reminded him of Craig, and he always married Sebastian. He moped around for the rest of the evening, watching some version of Housewives with his mother while she folded laundry on the couch, then glumly accepting his father's offer to play checkers.

"You're out of high school now, Tweek," his father said, sitting across the dining room table from him. He was playing black, and he moved a piece.

Tweek moved one of his own red pieces. "Yeah," he said.

"You'll graduate, and that'll be it."

"There's still college!" Tweek suppressed a twitch, not wanting to send the checkerboard flying.

"Hmm, well, yes, but you're done with high school, is what I'm saying." His father moved his piece over two of Tweek's, stacking them neatly on the side. "That's pretty big."

"Not really." He thought of something Craig had said before—that they practically give away high school diplomas. That they were worthless, and the reality of your life didn't begin until post-academia, or at the very least, grad school.

"You don't have to be so argumentative, Tweek." His father responded to Tweek's dumb move, taking three more of Tweek's checkers and reaching the other side of the board, stacking one of Tweek's discarded pieces under his own to form a king.

Tweek said nothing. The game would be over soon, and he would be able to flee to his room.

"Are you excited about moving to Denver?" his father asked more conversationally, leaning an elbow on the table as he continued to destroy Tweek at checkers. "Your own apartment, and all that?"

"Oh, shit!" Tweek did twitch this time, and he sent the checkers board flying, skidding off the table and reminding him of the incident with the knife from weeks ago. "The fucking apartment!"

"Tweek, calm down!" His father bent under the table, collecting the checkers pieces that had fallen on his side. Tweek knew he should follow suit, get the board, clean up his mess, but he was shaking in his chair. The  _apartment_.  _Craig._ Craig, and the apartment. They couldn't break up—they'd entangled their futures so closely together, they'd never thought of themselves as separate. And Craig never objected. It was Craig who had proposed the idea of living together, who had booked their suite, who had apparently built a cryptocurrency empire to take Tweek to an overpriced hipster café.

His mother came into the room. "What happened? I heard something fall."

"Tweek's freaking out about his apartment," his father said, rising from the floor with a handful of black and red checkers.

"What about the apartment, sweetheart?" his mother said, her expression softening.

"It's not  _my_ apartment, it's  _me and Craig's_! And he's not talking to me!" Tweek shouted, tangling his hands in his hair. "Oh my fucking God— _what do I do_?"

"I suppose you should just talk to him," his father said. "You should also pick up the checkers."

"Lay off him, Richard." His mother sent a quick glare at his father; Tweek watched as his father's shoulders shrunk. He shook it off, lowering to get the rest of the things off the floor himself, muttering under his breath. His mother turned back to him. "Yes, Tweek, you should talk to him. That's a good idea."

"He hasn't been answering! I've called him like fifty times!" Tweek twitched, an eye fully closing.

"Just go to his house," his father grunted from the floor. "Jesus. It's not rocket science, is it? I thought it'd be easier between two men."

"Richard," his mother repeated, her voice tired.

"Just saying." His father returned with the rest of the checkers in one hand, the board in his other. "Go on, Tweek. Go see him."

"And text me!" his mother called as Tweek sprinted from the chair, heading to the door. He took his keys and slammed his feet into the first pair of shoes; he would realize later that they were a pair of his father's loafers, much too big for him. "I want to know how everything goes!"

Tweek drove to Craig's house with white knuckles and a clenched jaw, waves of determination rolling within him. If Craig would not come to Tweek, Tweek would go to Craig. It was only fair; it was Tweek that got them into this whole mess, that violated the sacred boundaries of their relationship. He drove with no radio, the only sound his thoughts somersaulting around in his head.

He parked terribly, far too close to one car—Craig's mother's, he was pretty sure—and yet halfway on the lawn and crooked. He slammed the door, his blood buzzing throughout his body, feeling it most prominently in the soles of his feet. All cars were in the driveway, and sporadic lights were on in the house. He went to the door and knocked.

Ruby answered. She looked tired and worn thin; not as if she'd lost any weight since Tweek had seen her a week or so ago, but as if somebody had been scrubbing at her skin with a coarse washcloth. There were dark circles under her eyes, strands sticking out from her high ponytail, a prominent bubble of hair running along her natural part. Tweek's eyes swept over her hollow face and the sight behind her: a house in distress.

"Finally come to see him, huh?" Ruby asked. She coughed at the end of her sentence. When Tweek stepped in, he saw why: the ash tray on the table was full, overflowing, a cigarette burning out. The whole house felt hazy, and Tweek thought he smelled something burning in the kitchen. He darted his head towards the offensive smell, fighting down a gag, and saw an assortment of pots and pans on the stove.

"Where's Craig?" Tweek asked, as more details came to him. Craig's house had never been  _neat_ , always a little dingy and cluttered, but this was ridiculous. There was laundry everywhere, on the stairs and on the couch, and the television was on, showing the same Housewife marathon he'd been watching with his mother. The kitchen was filthy, dishes in the sink, layers of grime coating every surface. The difference a week had made was ludicrous and Tweek was on high alert, as if he'd accidentally walked into foreign, hostile territory.

"He's in his room," Ruby said. She cleared her throat.

"And your parents?" Tweek asked.

"Their room," Ruby said. Tweek heard something thick in her voice, something besides the phlegm. "I thought you were Karen. She and Melissa are supposed to be picking me up."

"Hope they come soon!" Tweek said, pushing past Ruby now that he'd gotten all pertinent information out of her. He took the steps two at a time, dancing around the vaguely human-shaped piles of laundry and not touching the bannister. He tried to remember the last time he'd been at Craig's house. It couldn't have been that long, couldn't have been more than ten days, and how could something deteriorate this fast in ten days? He was afraid to see the state of Craig, convincing himself he would have turned into a monster, a monster made of cigarette smoke and the general grime of a drug addict's unkempt dwellings, yellowed and vile.

Tweek burst into Craig's room without knocking, and once inside he felt like he was breathing fresh air for the first time in a long time. Until he saw Craig.

Craig was laying on the bed on his back, staring at the ceiling—it was dark, and their glow-in-the-dark stars were glowing their faint glow, more of an impression, really—with his hands crossed on his stomach. Tweek started to scream, and then stuck his own hand in his mouth so he wouldn't, afraid of disturbing Craig's parents. It was just as Tweek had feared, how he'd been imagining Craig this whole time, laying in the dark in his bedroom, entombed, vampire-like. Craig had his headphones on, and Tweek followed the line to his phone, sitting on the bedside table.

Craig rolled his head towards Tweek as if he had been expecting him. He sat up; he was shirtless, and Tweek watched the roll of his abdomen as he did, surprised at the sudden attraction that seized him. Craig took his headphones off and said, in that monotone voice of his, "Took you long enough."

Tweek did not move, nor take his hand from his mouth.

"Close the door. Come here."

The magic incantation; Tweek did just that, shutting the door as gently as possible and then padding to the bed. His feet felt not his own, his head swimming. He sat at the very edge of his bed, all the way at the foot, staring at Craig.

It was quiet for a few moments. Craig leaned over to pause the music on his phone. Tweek heard the sound of the fan rumbling. It was cold in the room, dark and cold and crypt-like, Craig's skin giving off as much glow as the stars. Still—Tweek felt anxious, sure, and confused, but there was a calm beneath it all, laying and waiting for Tweek to tap into it. Ready for him when he got there. For this was Craig, and this was Craig's room; and whatever else might happen, this was right.

"What happened?" Tweek asked, finally. Craig wasn't looking at him, but at the bed, his eyes in shadow from the angle.

"Mom got arrested," Craig said. He lifted his head now.

" _What_?" Tweek said, trying to keep his voice, however alarmed, to a whisper.

"When we fought, on Friday," Craig said, testing the story with his tongue. "I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to spoil your therapy appointment." He was speaking as if the story pained him, and Tweek wanted to reach out and touch his knee, but he kept his own resolve for now, his feet on the floor. This was when he realized he was wearing his father's shoes, and the absurdity of it all. "It was for drug possession, over in East Park. I don't know what happened, exactly. She called Ruby from jail, and Ruby called me. After I left your house I got the rest of my money out of the bank and posted her bail."

"Jesus Christ," Tweek said.

"I was mad," Craig said. "Why the fuck did she call Ruby?"

"I don't know!"

"Why not my dad? And now they're home all the time, 'cause Mom got laid off when her job heard about it and she's waiting for her day in court, and Dad only leaves to go to work. You think she might, you know, stop using, right? No."

"I'm so sorry, Craig," Tweek said. Unable to resist it any longer, he kicked his father's shoes off and crawled to Craig, sitting up on his knees and wrapping his arms around Craig's thin shoulders. The skin-on-skin contact made Tweek shiver. This body of this boy, that he had gotten to know so well and yet felt that he didn't know at all, the connection of their earthly vessels.

"I went to the school and postponed my exams," Craig said. "They told me to just forget about them, it didn't matter. I didn't know what else to do. And I didn't want to see you. You were mad at me."

"I'm not that mad!" Tweek said. He pulled back, so he could look at Craig, so that they could fight—or discuss, or whatever they were about to do—properly. "How could I be mad, Craig, Jesus! You know I'm here for you."

"Because—I mean, we had that fight."

Tweek groaned and went to tug a fistful of his hair. Craig stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"And," Craig said. "I did a lot of thinking about us, and that fight, of course. I love you, Tweek. I really do. Probably in that gay way. Fuck, I don't know. I never thought about it, or at least, I tried not to think about it. I mean, it's fucking stupid, right? But—apart from that—I don't think—I don't think I'm good for you."

With his hand on his wrist Tweek could feel Craig start to shake, but he didn't need to just feel it. He could see it, could see the wavering line of Craig's skinny white shoulders. "Don't be a fucking idiot, Craig," Tweek said. "You're not a fucking idiot. Jesus, I'm so sorry I said that to you."

"No, it's fine, I  _am_ a fucking idiot." Craig moaned, and in it Tweek could hear ample pain, perhaps more pain than Tweek himself had ever felt. "Who has a sexuality crisis after being in a gay relationship for like a decade? After fucking a guy for a week?"

"It's okay, babe," Tweek said. He shook Craig's hand from his wrist and instead put his hand on Craig's face, running his thumb over his cheekbone. "It's okay. It's just us."

"Anyway," Craig said. "That's not the point. The point is—I'm not good for you. You're like—you're brave, and you're smart, and you're funny, right? You got yourself all figured out, look at that. Wow. And—I'm just the poor son of a junkie mom and a deadbeat dad, right? I'm basically Kenny fucking McCormick, except not as good looking."

Tweek blinked. "I don't think Kenny is good looking," he said. "Craig, Jesus—you're beautiful!"

Craig moaned again, although he sounded impatient this time. "I'm holding you back," he said. "I'm—what did that one therapist say? I'm  _stunting your development_."

"No, you're not!" Tweek said. His body seemed to finally catch up with this conversation, and the gravity of it, for he could feel his heart ramp up. "Craig, you're it! You're the only good thing! God—you're so fucking good for me, and to me—"

"You've wasted your whole life on me," Craig said. "You could've had your great gay awakening years ago. I mean, you tried, didn't you? When we were younger? And you just went along with it, because—I don't know, because I enable you, and when you're with me you don't have to do the hard stuff."

"You make me want to do the hard stuff!" Tweek said. "You—Craig, I'm only brave because of you! If it weren't for you, I'd just be living with my parents, doing whatever they told me to do! You—you enable me, but you enable me to do the  _good_ things."

"It's not healthy," Craig continued, as if this were a speech he'd rehearsed, and he was filtering out Tweek's interjections. "It's just not healthy. I'll hold you back. I'm South Park trash, and you deserve more."

Tweek tried to understand what Craig was saying—it felt as if he'd smashed three concepts into one, something about drugs, something about Tweek's mental health, and something about Craig's apparent complete lack of self-worth. And something, too, about sexuality. Tweek could solve that one, he thought; he leaned forward, taking Craig's face in both his hands, and kissing Craig with determination and with purpose.

Craig opened, letting Tweek in. His tongue, and Tweek himself, moving to sit between Craig's slowly opening legs. Tweek just kept kissing him with his hands on his face, feeling as if he were trying to breathe life, or at least sense, back into Craig. Perhaps Craig had gotten all messed up because he'd gone too long without Tweek; they had opened a catastrophic universal schism, had violated a basic concept of being. It was as if they'd broken the second law of gravity.

Tweek pulled back. "You kissed back," he said, wiping his mouth with his hand.

"Yeah," Craig said. "I mean—Jesus, Tweek, of course I did. I love you, don't I?"

"Then why make it so  _hard_?" Tweek cried. "You don't—you don't have to be gay! You can just love me. Everybody already knows, or thinks—it's all okay, Craig. It's all okay."

"It's not okay," Craig refuted immediately. "It's not okay, 'cause I got this all fucked up, okay, Tweek? I held you back for years, and I don't want to do it anymore. I just want to waste away in this room. I feel like shit. I broke your heart. I can't protect Ruby. I lost all my money 'cause of my mother. I  _am_ shit."

Tweek gazed into Craig's eyes, trying to find that thing he was always searching for. He did not find it—instead he found worry, and an upset gray sea churning away, the sky the color of clouds about to spill their rain. He did not want to see Craig cry. He did not want that at all; it was perhaps the thing he wanted least. He wanted Craig's eyes to slip back into their beautiful, neutral, passive state, and he wanted to lay down and burrow under the covers with Craig and watch something on Netflix, he wanted to smoke a joint and run his hands over all of Craig's body. He wanted the comfort of the cave they had carved for themselves. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Craig, as it should be, and he never wanted to have such a fight, such a difficult few months, ever again.

Tweek visualized himself gathering all his courage from every corner he could seek out in his mind—in his mind, he was pulling the sword from the stone, wearing chainmail, Craig looking on from a blur of vague, unimportant faces, one of Tweek's feet on the rock as he pulled with all his might—and took a long, deep breath through his nose. He took Craig's hand and brought it underneath his shirt, to his chest. "You didn't break my heart," Tweek said. "Can't you feel it beating? It's not broken."

"It's beating so fast," Craig said, as if Tweek's pulse wasn't always this elevated.

"For you," Tweek said. "It beats for you. Jesus, Craig—we're a duo. We can't be apart. No matter what you say."

Craig sighed. His eyes started to close, but before they did, Tweek saw them slide back to a more neutral state. Perhaps not repaired but getting there. This was enough for Tweek to keep at it.

"We're getting out of South Park," Tweek said. "The apartment, remember? You never have to see your parents again, and I know you're worried about Ruby, but she'll be fine. She's tough! She has friends! She might not have a Tweek, but she'll have somebody, someday. And—you have me, Craig. You have me! I'm right here! Always! I never wanted to fight, I just wanted to know that you love me, that you're  _in_ love with me, that—that when we get married, it won't be for tax benefits!"

Craig laughed, a faint, small sound that Tweek wanted to cup his hands around and protect at all costs. Plant it into the ground so it could grow. "Is that a proposal?" Craig asked.

"Fuck no!" Tweek said, jumping into the joke with all he could. "You better propose to me, you asshole! And it better be great! But not public, because—that's too much pressure."

Craig laughed again, louder this time, and Tweek leaned in so they could touch their forehead. He parted his mouth slightly, hoping that Craig's laughter would enter him and together they could stitch the universe back together, properly. "I sill think," Craig said, suddenly returning to seriousness. "That you'll see—I'm just a crutch, Tweek. I'm just somebody that feeds you mints and let you cry on my shoulder."

"Maybe I need a crutch," Tweek said. "So what? Some people need crutches."

"We're talking in circles," Craig said.

"No, we're not. You're just saying that because you don't want to talk anymore." Tweek nudged against Craig with his nose. "I know that, 'cause I know how people talk when they don't want to talk anymore, 'cause I do it all the time."

"You're right," Craig said, and even though it was totally inappropriate Tweek could not fight off the smugness that came with being told you were right—especially as a person who was constantly told they were wrong and they didn't make any sense. But Craig seemed not to want to play that card, that manipulative, awful card. Tweek felt the buried love, the love that lived in his gut before all else, now living and thriving throughout his body. He felt it intensely, so intensely that he grabbed at Craig as if he was about to be swept away by a strong wind. Tweek told himself to pay attention to what Craig was saying, which was, "I don't want to talk. I want to take a bath."

Tweek ran the bath this time, selecting the best and most expensive bath bomb they had, one of the ones he'd gotten Craig for Christmas. He locked the door so they could not be interrupted. He took Craig's sweatpants off for him. He helped Craig into the tub. Then he lowered himself into the tub, pride filling his chest. He could live on his own, he knew; but he could also, would rather also, live with Craig. And if Craig needed help, he could provide it. Tweek knew this, now, and was close to tears with the realization. Things seemed so much simpler in retrospect, he rought. Like looking back at a panic attack and cringing, thinking how you could be so stupid as to worry about that. Looking back at his and Craig's relationship and cringing, thinking about how they had gotten themselves convinced they weren't in love.

In the bath Tweek washed Craig's hair, slowly and reverently, Craig bending his head down towards him. He ran the washcloth over Craig's spine, counting out each knob. He washed him with as much attention and focus as he could possibly muster, and at the end he did not feel exhausted but exalted. Tweek didn't give a fuck about religion. But this was the closest to a religious experience he'd ever had.

"I love you," Tweek whispered. They had held each other in this bath for a long time, the water starting to go cold. "I love you so much, Craig. I'm. I'm so happy to have you back. I never want you to leave again."

Craig, eyes closed and exhausted, muttered something Tweek couldn't quite make out, couldn't quite hear, against his skin. It was okay; Craig could be tired, and Craig could not make sense. Tweek had been there, and had done that for so long, and would in all likelihood return to that state soon enough. For now, he could hold Craig. For now, he could be the strong one.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Thinking, Drinking, Sinking, Feeling

A storm rolled in with graduation the following Monday, relegating the graduating class of Park County High School into the small, dark cavern of the inside building of Park County Football Stadium. There were an even three hundred and thirty graduates from South Park, North Park, East Park and West Park combined, and by sheer coincidence Tweek was seated alphabetically beside Craig. They stood huddled in the dark, damp waiting space, and Craig said, "I bet this is how chickens feel before you slaughter them," and Tweek laughed so hard he slobbered on Craig's graduation robe. It was a bright orange, the terrible school color of Park County High.

They had spent the previous three days rolling around in Tweek's bed, having sex and smoking pot, impervious to the cares of Tweek's parents. They paused only so Tweek could don the Tweek Bros. coffee apron and head to work; Craig would kiss him goodbye in long, heavy strokes of his tongues, that often made Tweek crawl back on the bed between Craig's legs and forced him to work twenty minutes after his shift was supposed to begin. He wore a stupid smile all day, frequently mixed orders up and had to redo them without feeling the usual immediate death grip of anxiety around his stomach. Once again, he felt like he was in a fog, but if the previous fog was made of nasty-smelling, poisonous gas, this one was made of cotton-candy, pleasant and sweet on his tongue.

Of course, there was therapy on Friday. Craig drove him, both hands on the wheel but the whole drive shooting Tweek looks like he'd rather be touching him, instead. Dr. Watt raised his eyebrow the smallest bit when he saw them in the waiting room, Tweek sitting on Craig's lap with one of Craig's arms snaked around his waist.

"Things went well then, I presume?" he had asked when the door was closed.

And Tweek told him, told him all that Craig had told him, about Craig's mother, his crisis, his feelings of inferiority, and the persistent belief that he was actually bad for Tweek.

"We generally want the person with anxiety to be able to calm themselves down, without reliance on another person," Dr. Watt said, tutting. "But I believe we've been making progress in that regard, so I think Craig has nothing to fear. Additionally, you show a willingness to improve on your own, and not just use Craig as a crutch. If the relationship became too dependent, I would help you realize that. For now, we'll call it good. How's your hyperosmia?"

"Completely gone!" Tweek had announced, rocking back in his seat.

Dr. Watt had recorded something in his notepad, and that was that. The session moved on to discuss more independent ways for Tweek to help himself. They revisited stimming, Dr. Watt suggesting specific alternatives for Tweek's habits of chewing the skin around his nailbeds and tugging at his hair, and even drew up a plan to ease Tweek out of his anxiety surrounding driving. Tweek had his doubts about the last one, and voiced them, but Dr. Watt told him he could not know until he tried.

Which brought Tweek's whirlwind of a life to Monday, everything swirling metaphorically and literally, what with the storm outside. A flash summer storm, they knew it'd be over in a few minutes, but still the ceremony was delayed, everybody in their little cave complaining loudly and then hushing as soon as a clap of thunder rang through the walls.

Tweek startled at the instances, jumping against Craig. Craig just smiled and wrapped his arms around him, bringing his head to his chest and dropping his chin on Tweek's crown, again giving Tweek the impression that they were less humans and more machines designed for this specific purpose, to slot themselves together in all situations and under all circumstances. The nearest person from South Park to them, alphabetically, was Wendy, but she was too busy zipping and then re-zipping her robe over her dress in different positions with a micro-centimeter of a distance, wiggling her toes in her heels, smoothing her collar and adjusting her hat over her hair. She was Valedictorian, and Tweek recognized this behavior well.

"Wendy looks nervous," he said, standing on his tiptoes to whisper this in Craig's ear. Otherwise he'd have to shout and draw unnecessary attention, which he didn't want to do for Wendy's sake. Besides, it gave him an excuse to press his lips to the smooth bit of skin wrapping from behind Craig's earlobe to the sharp cut of his jaw, and to feel the goosebumps rise.

Craig swallowed and nodded. "Wendy!" he called, stepping out of the loosely form lined to project his voice. She was standing about five people down; Tweek recognized one of them as Jackson Tubbs, but not the rest. Again he was amazed at the extent he'd ignored peoples besides Craig for the last eight years.

"Hmm?" she asked, pausing from moving the strands of her hair around her face. "Craig?" She gave him a skeptical look. Craig and Wendy were friends in the most tertiary of ways; mostly they just attended the same Yoga class, which had disbanded a while back so that the participants could focus on graduation.

"Stop that," Craig said. "You look fine, and you're gonna kill it."

The five people between, and some of the others down the line that could hear them, laughed, and a blush that did not match the blush she'd applied that morning crawled across Wendy's cheeks. She took her hand away from her hair as if she'd been commanded to do so with the swat of a nun's ruler.

"How dare you," she mouthed at him.

Craig laughed and flipped her off

. Tweek thought the timing would have been perfect if they'd been directed to go out on the field, then, but still the rain beat on. The tinny sound reverberated along with the thunder in the walls. Tweek felt as though he were underwater, or perhaps a fish in an aquarium at night, the lights turned off and all the gawkers gone home for the day. There were another few minutes before he heard the rain stop, and then another ten minutes before the doors swung open and let the harsh post-storm light rush in like water through a breaking dam. A teacher Tweek recognized but never had appeared, waving her arm to welcome them into the harsh, artificial lighting of the stadium.

With rain in the forecast they had assembled a tarp over the stage and folding chairs, but they'd disassembled it in the ten-minute gap between the rain stopping and the ceremony commencing. Tweek saw a gaggle of workers disappearing into one of the other tunnels, carrying it. He pointed it out to Craig, who made a sarcastic response that they could plan for rain but couldn't just push the ceremony back in the day according to the forecast. The futility of human behavior, he had said, all with the same nasal monotone that Tweek had come to expect to narrate all of life's strange events.

Tweek played with the zipper on his gown during the ceremony, inspired by Wendy. It was better than chewing on his nails or pulling chunks of his hair from his scalp. He heard some odd phrases from the speeches, and felt Craig squeeze his hand and snickered with him a few times, but otherwise all Tweek really felt and heard was the heat from the overhead lights. Wendy's speech was the usual graduation fare, nothing  _too_ controversial but a few statements on the importance of gun safety for high schoolers. There'd been no shootings in Colorado, but Tweek supposed it were topical, even if it did make him flinch with belated anxiety. Finally, they transitioned into the diploma-giving segment of the program, and even that was a long wait for Tweek, being positioned at the back of the alphabet.

He followed Craig the whole way, staring at the collar of his dress-shirt  _just_ peeking out from his gown. If you didn't know it was there, Tweek thought, you wouldn't see it. But Tweek  _did_ knowit was there, because he knew Craig, and he'd been with Craig that morning in Tweek's room as Craig put on the shirt, ironed by Tweek's mother alongside Tweek's the night previous. He had watched as Craig had buttoned it, tucked it just so into his dress pants and looped his belt around. They were wearing matching shirts Tweek's mother had bought online from Macy's—Craig in olive green, Tweek in navy blue. The only difference was that Craig was in khakis, while Tweek wore gray pinstriped slacks.

They snaked behind the stage to have their picture taken, and then it was up to shake the principal's hand and receive their diploma. Tweek got through it with minimal twitching, though his left eye almost shut when he was shaking the principal's hand. He investigated the stands briefly to try and find his parents, but it was just a momentary blur of similar faces, and thus Tweek went and sat back down.

Another half an hour and the ceremony finished, the graduates ushered into the dark cavern of a hallway opposite the one they'd came out of that led up to the main entrance. Tweek held Craig's hand the whole time, terrified of losing him. They were met immediately at the mouth of the entrance by Tweek's parents; his mother hugged him, while his father shook Craig's hand, and then they switched. Tweek's father did hug him, though, briefly, a macho clap on the back that beat Tweek's weak lungs and made him cough.

"Let's find your parents now, huh, Craig?" his mother asked, smiling.

"Yeah." Craig did not look excited. "If they even came."

They had come; after a few minutes of wandering through the throng of people, they found a tall girl with a red ponytail, Ruby. She was standing with her parents, and while they all looked grim and a little too thin, at least they were there. Tweek hugged Craig's mother—her hair smelled like cigarettes, but her breath was fresh—and then Craig's father. The parents shook hands; Ruby and Craig exchanged middle fingers and a smirk; small talk that circled around Tweek's head yet never entered his ears was conducted.

"Well, it only makes sense that we all celebrate together," Tweek's father said. Tweek looked at him with wide eyes, disbelieving.

"I guess so," Craig's mother replied. "These boys are attached at the hip."

"They're not boys though, anymore, are they?" Tweek's mother tilted her head and smiled. Tweek wondered what she thought of Craig's parents; he had never really been privy to his own parents' innermost thoughts, they were not that sort of family. "They're men. Eighteen! High school graduates! College students!"

"Not yet," Craig said.

"Soon, though." Tweek's mother directed her smile at him, now.

"Soon is not the same as now," Craig deadpanned. Tweek and Ruby burst out laughing, but the respective parents did not, instead looking at each other in much the same  _is this guy for real_? way that Tweek had gotten used to Craig receiving. As usual, Craig did not notice; he just slipped a hand under Tweek's now open graduation-robe, grabbing him around the side and pulling him close.

They went to a nearby Outback Steakhouse. Tweek and Ruby ordered the same salad while Craig got a steak, cooked medium well, and he cut very small chunks off to slide into Tweek's salad. Nobody watched, nor payed them much mind; they were Craig and Tweek, and this was what they did, on such a very basic level that their parents had absorbed it into their general impression. Under the table their ankles crossed, their hands on each other's thighs, always overlapped.

Afterwards they separated, kissing goodbye in the parking lot. They would see each other the next day at Token's graduation party, but for now they could not justify being with each other; their families still had some sort of hold on them. Tweek hugged Ruby, too, in unusually good spirits, as if he'd been drinking with his dinner when he hadn't been.

At home Tweek's mother served cake—almond, Tweek's favorite, alongside special coffee they'd imported from Colombia, the kind of stuff that was too expensive to justify selling at their regular shop. As they were sitting at the dinner table, his father talking about what Clyde's dad, whom they had sat besides, had to say about the Denver Broncos, his mother emerged from the kitchen with something wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied with an elaborate orange bow.

"You got me a gift?" Tweek balked, putting the bite of almond cake he'd been about to eat back on his plate

"Of course, Tweek," his father said, while his mother just smiled and placed it down in front of him before taking her seat. "We do love you."

Tweek approached the gift like it were a sick kitten he could murder with a single wrong touch. The loose ribbon slid off easily, and he glided his skinny fingers under the scotch tape. He set the parcel paper aside carefully, unearthing another box with  _WACOM CITNIQ_ stamped across the top.

"Oh my God!" Tweek shrieked, his eyes blowing wide. He looked from his mother and father, who were both wearing small, smug smiles. The tablet in front of Tweek ran for about eight hundred dollars, commercially—he knew this because he'd looked through them with Craig on those endless afternoons they spent in bed, dreaming about their life and their apartment.

"Since you want to be an architect," Tweek's father said. "We thought it'd be nice for you to have a way to draw. We know you have your sketchbooks, but they do a lot of digital work at university, don't they?"

"You guys—how did you know?"

"Craig," Tweek's mother said. She winked at Tweek. "He's good for some things."

Tweek laughed, tears collecting in his eyes. "You guys—" he repeated, unsure of where to go. For maybe the first time in a long time, he felt like a full member of the family, like a normal kid with normal parents who loved and supported him for things besides the crossed wires and goblins living in his brain. It was less the amount of money they'd spent and more that they  _knew_ this about him, that they paid attention to the sketchbooks in his backpack and his room (a habit he'd let slide as the recent stress ramped up) and that they knew to go to Craig to ask about the best possible gift. Tweek got up from his chair and went to give his mother a long hug, then stopped by his father to give him a shorter, one-armed hug before returning to scarf down the rest of his cake.

He spent the rest of the evening messing around with the tablet on his laptop, sketching miscellanea he saw: his coffee cup, the cake laying on its platter in the middle of the table, the plant in the corner of the room. His mother came in while she was washing dishes, getting Tweek's shoulder a little wet from her apron as she leaned over him. "Very good, sweetheart," she said, kissing the top of his head before she returned to her chores.

Tweek worked an afternoon shift the next day, unable to stop smiling. He felt like a normal person for the first time in a long time, kind of like after they let the storeroom go to hell and spent a good day cleaning and reorganizing the shelves. He knew the mess would return eventually, but it would be slow, and maybe this time they could do the cleaning in small pieces, prevent it from becoming a gale of disorder. Optimism was both a blessing and a curse, and today Tweek chose to take it solely as a blessing.

Craig came in while Tweek was working, ordering a large iced coffee with sugar. "Wow, Craig," Tweek said while he prepared the order, Craig leaning over the counter. His parents were allowing it because it was around three, their slow hour. "You never get sugar."

"Feeling kinda sweet today," Craig said. He was trying to deadpan, betrayed by the smile fighting for control over his mouth.

"You're always sweet." Tweek pushed the coffee towards Craig and leaned against his side of the counter.

"I actually came in because I want to ask you something," Craig said. He bent the straw of his drink back, then took a sip, looking up through his eyelashes at Tweek.

"What?" Tweek asked. His heart picked up, his ears perking involuntarily.

"I want you to drive to Token's party tonight."

"I thought we were going to walk there?" Tweek asked, his voice tilting at the end. "I mean—it's not that far?"

"It's to work on the Dr. Watt thing," Craig said. He offered his coffee to Tweek, who took a sip despite having his own cup on the back counter. The sugar made his nose scrunch up. "He wants you to start small, right? So, this is small. And I'll be with you."

"What if I want to drink?" Tweek asked.

"Then I'll drive home." Craig shrugged. "Do you really want to drink, though?"

Tweek considered it. "No," he said.

Craig smiled. "I figured. Come here."

He pulled at Tweek's apron and kissed him, their shared coffee on their tongues. Tweek wondered what it would be like to kiss with a mouthful of coffee; it would probably be gross, get on their chins and their necks, but he'd like to try it, he thought. A whole sexual world was out there, waiting for his and Craig's delayed exploration, and the thought made him deepen the kiss with Craig, ready to crawl over the stupid counter on his knees.

"Whoa, whoa." Craig pulled back. "You're at work."

"Didn't stop you before," Tweek pointed out, looking at Craig's hands. The bruises had faded.

Craig laughed. "You were working stock, then," he said. He grabbed his coffee. "I gotta go."

Tweek wished him goodbye and watched him leave forlornly, even though they'd be at Token's party together in about five hours. His shift lasted until six, when it would be just his parents in the shop for the remaining two hours it was open. It passed by slowly, as if the hands of the clocks had been coated in lead. He all but ran out when it was time to leave.

At home he took a shower, working his fingers through the knotted nest that had become his hair, singing out of tune and wishing Craig were there to do it all for him. He dressed as usual, an oversized but thin long-sleeved shirt and a pair of skinny jeans, sliding the earrings that he had kept from Craig into his ears. He looked at himself in the mirror, really looked—he felt like he forgot what he looked like sometimes. As if he were one of those brain-monsters from Dungeons & Dragons, indistinguishable from the others. He followed the line of his nose, seeing his mother when he smiled, his father when he rested his features. Then he grabbed his keys from the key hook.

He focused on his breathing during the drive to Craig's house, as Dr. Watt had taught him. This was fine; he had done this many times, but he felt as if he were looking at driving through new eyes, much as he felt every day. His personal fog has lifted, has retreated from his eyes and out of his nose. It was just Craig's car in the driveway when he got there.

Ruby and her friends were in the living room; Tweek did a double-take when he saw that Karen McCormick had her head in Ruby's lap, and Ruby was playing with her hair, braiding it in strands of mismatched size. Tweek smiled at her, trying to make the smile knowing, and Ruby flipped him off in return, and in the way she tried to suppress a smile of her own Tweek was struck by how much she reminded him of Craig.

"Blue shirt or red?" Craig asked, when Tweek stepped into his room.

"Why do you care?" Tweek gave him a strange look.

"You're right." Craig threw the blue shirt behind him and slid the red shirt over his head. "I think this one is cleaner."

Tweek leaned over to smell his shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "Smells like laundry detergent."

"Fuckin' weirdo," Craig said, affectionately, tilting Tweek's face up to kiss him.

Tweek kissed back, sliding his hands around Craig's neck. His hair was damp, too, silky between Tweek's fingers as he played with it. He pressed himself into Craig, perfectly content to do this, perfectly content to miss the party altogether in favor of spending the evening as usual, all cuddled up in the cave of Craig's bed with some weed and some Netflix.

But Craig drew back. "We really have to go to that party," he said.

Tweek made a whining noise, keeping his arms around Craig's neck. "Wouldn't your rather just chill with your absolute favorite boyfriend in bed?" he asked, tilting his head and pouting a bit.

Craig sighed, his eyes pinching up, and eased Tweek's arms off him. "Well, yeah. But we have to socialize with other people. It's not healthy—"

"There you go with that healthy shit again," Tweek said. A sour taste had started to take form in his mouth, a sour knot in his stomach. Craig was using the same tone of voice that he had used when trying to explain to Tweek that he wasn't  _good_ for him, and Tweek thought they had settled that. "When did you get so concerned with health, Craig? I don't even remember the last time I saw you drink water!"

"What does drinking water have to do with it?" Craig asked, tilting his head quixotically.

"I just know what you're going to say next—you're going to say I'm not making any sense."

"No," Craig said, though he bit his tongue as if that  _was_ what he was about to say. "Mental and physical health are different. Anyway. I'm just trying—I'm just trying to help you out here, Tweek."

Now it was Tweek's turn to sigh, and to reach up to tug at his hair. His jaw dropped when Craig took his wrists, guiding them back down to their resting position at his thighs. "You help me by being you, Craig. I told you. You don't have to do anything else!"

"But it's like you're a different person, now," Craig said. He kept his hands around Tweek's wrist, his thumb pressing into the visible bone. "Or it's like—you're still  _you_ , but you're a better you."

"Yeah, because we worked through our shit! So I feel better!"

"No,  _you_ worked through  _your_ shit." Craig took his hands away finally, threading them across the back of his head. "We have not worked through my shit."

"You worked through being gay," Tweek said. "Or—if not gay, gay for  _me_."

Craig's jaw tightened, the popping muscle rippling across his face. "Yeah, okay, but it's like—Tweek, it's not that I don't want to take care of you. I fucking love taking care of you. It's that, I don't know. What if I died tomorrow?"

"You're not going to die!" Tweek said, jumping back as if Craig's killer had appeared in the room between them. "Why the fuck would you even  _say_ that, Craig?"

"Because! Because that's how you act!" Craig's voice rose, and he flushed as he heard it. "What  _would_ you do if I died tomorrow? How would you go on? You can't—your life can't be another person, Tweek! It just can't! It's not healthy, it's not normal!"

"Then why do people get married?" Tweek asked. "Tax benefits? No! They get married for love! So—there's shit I do, shit I like, that you don't. I know you don't get the point of, like, modern art." In fact, they'd almost had a huge fight over the meaning of Mondrian's  _Blue, White and Yellow_  during their visit to the Denver Art Museum last year. Craig didn't understand the point, preferred the impressionist landscapes that drove Tweek to tears of boredom from their triteness and uniformity. Tweek's opinion of impressionism stopped at Monet. Even thinking about it, he felt incensed; the fuck was the point in a painting of a pond that forty other artists have already painted? But Craig loved that shit.

Craig sighed. "That's different," he said. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Uh, modern art means a lot to me, Craig."

Craig just looked at him.

"Come on, Craig, man—don't do this to me." Tweek's voice, which had been getting steelier, broke. It was like turning coal to diamonds with pressure but going far past the point of necessity. "I don't understand why you keep saying you love me, and then you keep doing this. It's—" a thought occurred to Tweek, and he stepped towards Craig, closing the distance he himself had put between them. "It's not me, is it? You're afraid. You're afraid, because you love me so much. You don't know how to handle it. So you don't want to. And I know that it's hard to make you do the things you don't want to do."

Craig was quiet for a few beats. Tweek realized that there was music playing; very soft music, seemingly coming from Craig's laptop, his Spotify open. The song was  _Thinking, Drinking, Sinking_  by Slow Club, and Tweek had never heard of it before. It was too quiet now to really make anything out besides the slow melody. "Yeah," Craig said, his eyes closing halfway. "Yeah—you know what, that's it. And I know I sound like I'm being sarcastic right now, but—that's it. I'm scared. 'Cause I love you so much, and I don't love anything."

"You tell yourself you don't love anything," Tweek said. "But we know that's not true. You love things too much."

"Yeah," Craig repeated. His arms lowered from his head, and Tweek took this opportunity to grab at his hands, wrapping his fingers between them. "It's like. I had you before, right? We were just doing our own thing, and there were no expectations. Everything seemed so simple. But our stupid dicks—"

"It wasn't our dicks," Tweek interjected, wounded by the suggestion.

Craig sighed, a smile twitching across his lips and then instantly fading. "It complicated things," Craig said. "I went too far. Without talking to you about it. And then—then it felt too late, like if I said something you'd reveal that you were just playing along, too. So I didn't say anything, and you didn't say anything, and I was still pretending that I was pretending. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah," Tweek said. "Pretending that we were pretending. Yeah. It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

Craig squeezed Tweek's fingers.

"Just like fourth grade," Tweek continued, whispering. "You got scared then too."

"Just like fourth grade," Craig echoed. His eyes were far away, and he was looking over Tweek's left shoulder, which was to Craig's right. According to a criminology documentary they watched, that meant he was remembering something. Fourth grade— _tears in my eyes, I begged you to stay_ —but there were no tears now. Just the hum of the music and the fan and the feeling of Craig's cool fingers in his own. The last thing Tweek wanted to do was shatter that, to go to the stupid party. He wanted to coax Craig back into bed and make slow, lazy, weed-fueled love, and he wanted to wrap their hairless legs around each other. He wanted to not to pretend, but also to not put effort into anything, and to just be. But Tweek was much better at doing things that he didn't want to do than Craig, and he knew he would have to go to the party. If nothing else, he owed it to Token.

"I love you," Tweek said.

"I love you too. I'm sorry." Craig brought Tweek close again, and it was as if their fight had never happened, their original positions restored. "I'm sorry—it's a lot, you know. To accept."

"Take your time," Tweek said. "I'll be here. Jesus, Craig—you know I'll be here!"

Craig remained solemn on the short drive to Token's house. It was just a few minutes, but it was a tense few minutes, Craig's knees together and his head against the window, Tweek hunched over the steering wheel like a little old lady who lost her vision years ago. They were early to Token's—they had intended that—and Tweek could have parked in the long driveway, but he instead chose a spot on the side of the street a little further down, knowing it'd be easy to get out later.

When they were walking to Token's house, Tweek stuck his hand out towards Craig. Craig looked at it, a small white fish swimming in the dark of the night, looked at Tweek, and then slipped his own hand in Tweek's.

"Still love me?" Tweek asked, smiling.

"Of course," Craig scoffed.

"I'll keep asking. Just to make sure."

Craig scoffed again, but in the shadow of the streetlamps, Tweek could see a smile.

There were orange balloons tied to signposts on either side of Token's house's walkway and a big bushel of orange and white balloons on the porch they had to step around. The door was unlocked and Craig let himself in without pretense. Craig and Tweek dumped their shoes in the coatroom—Tweek could not get over the fact that Token's house was large enough to have its own coatroom, and that it was a  _used_ coatroom—and then followed the trail of noise to the kitchen.

Clyde and Jimmy were there, Jimmy sitting in a chair with his crutches leaning against the back. There were orange ribbons tied around them, the grips changed from their usual white to the same orange shade. Clyde was already drinking, leaning against the sink with a beer bottle in hand. An IPA from a Denver brewery, Tweek recognized. There were a few cases of them stacked on the floor beside Clyde's feet. Craig went and got one.

"Where's Token?" Tweek asked the room.

"Picking up the food with his muh-muh-Mom," Jimmy answered.

"You want one?" Craig asked Tweek, nudging the stack of beer with his foot. Tweek shook his head. To Jimmy, he asked, "Are Token's parents going to be hanging around?"

Jimmy shrugged.

"This house is so fucking big, what does it matter?" that was Clyde, said after a belch. "They could stay up on the third floor."

Craig shrugged himself. "Just asking," he said. "Token said it's supposed to a big blowout."

"I think they have tick-tick-tickets for a show in Denver," Jimmy offered. "Would you give me a beer, Cruh-Craig?"

It was about twenty minutes before Token returned, his mother trailing beside him, both their arms loaded with plastic containers of various finger foods. Craig, Tweek, Jimmy and Clyde passed the time talking about the rounds of Fortnite Jimmy and Clyde had been playing, both of them trying to convince Craig and Tweek to join. Tweek was accepting, but Craig wasn't a fan of competitive shooters. He pretended to be against them because they were mindless and violent, but Tweek knew that he just had shitty aim. When Token and his mom entered, Craig and Clyde rushed to help them, going out to the car to retrieve more food. Tweek stayed in with Jimmy.

Token's mother paid no mind to the fact that the underage teenagers in her kitchen were drinking, and in fact said, "Don't get into the expensive stuff, alright?" as she kissed Token's forehead.

"Of course not," Token said. "Wendy's brining some wine coolers, and I think Bebe's bringing stuff as well. The lock is on the liquor cabinet. Nobody knows the combination."

"Right." His mother ran a hand over his collar, smoothing it down, then grabbed her purse. "Alright. Your father and I will be just a call away if you need us. Please be responsible." She directed the last bit at all of them, nodding at Craig, Tweek, Clyde and Jimmy in turn. "I love you, Token."

Then she was gone, and not five minutes later did the first of the guests—Wendy, arriving in a car with Bebe and Red—arrived. After that, a steady stream of people filtered through Token's door. Tweek recognized all the kids in South Park he'd grown up with, and an assortment of people from Park County High. For what felt like the thousandth time he was reminded that he'd never bothered to get to know anybody from any of the other Parks; in fact, he'd never really bothered to get to know anybody from his Park, besides Craig and those Craig wished to associate himself with.

Which is how Tweek ended up sitting on the couch beside Kenny McCormick. Craig said he had something to do, that it was important but Tweek couldn't accompany him—which, of course, drove Tweek into a panic, half-convinced Craig was about to murder somebody or make an illicit drug deal—and suggested Tweek just sit on the couch in the main living room until he returned. Stan and Clyde were playing a perhaps  _too_ aggressive round of an old Halo game with localized multiplayer on the gargantuan television, while others were sitting around, drinking. In one corner, Kevin Stoley and a girl with pink hair Tweek didn't know were making out; in another, he spied yet another person he didn't know, a guy wearing a beat-up denim jacket this time, trying to talk up Henrietta. Even the Goth Kids were here.

"Party of the year," Kenny said to Tweek. He had tiger stripes painted across his face, presumably in honor of Park County High's mascot. With his wild hair, looking more like Tweek's than Tweek cared to admit, he looked downright frightening.

"Y—yeah," Tweek squawked, alarmed at Kenny's talking to him.

"Where's your caretaker? Oh, shit. That was insensitive, sorry. Not funny. I meant Craig. Obviously."

Kenny's eyes were open wide, but Tweek could see they were bloodshot. He decided to take no offense to that comment, based on that fact. "I don't know!" He went to tug his hair, then swatted at his own wrist. "He disappeared! He said he had something to do."

"Something to do?" Kenny cocked his head. "Oh, shit." He got up and went to the floor in front of the television, where Clyde and Stan were sitting. He kicked Stan in the back, though gently. "Stan, check your phone."

Tweek watched as Stan took his phone from his pocket—Clyde took this opportunity to kill him in game, whooping—and checked it. He heard Stan mutter something, and then he stood up, stretching. "Game's over," he said to Clyde.

"I won," Clyde said, pointing at the screen.

"You cheated," Kenny pointed out, helpfully. Clyde, though, was too drunk to care, and said something about finding Bebe as he stood up.

Stan walked out of the room and Kenny turned the Xbox off, then came back to the couch. "What does Stan have to do with Craig?" Tweek asked, anxiety mounting.

"You'll see," Kenny said. He took the remote from the coffee table and turned the television to Token's Spotify account, throwing on some generic party mix. Tweek watched him, wondering how he knew to do all these things. Kenny always had a strange energy around him, a type of energy that reminded Tweek at his failed attempts of incorporating Buddhist philosophy into his life. When Kenny saw that Tweek was now biting his nails with his knees drawn up to his chest, Kenny laughed and said, "Seriously, dude, chill. What do you think Craig's doing? Selling his body upstairs to pay for your Denver apartment?"

Tweek's jaw fell open. "How do you—do you think that's what he's doing?!"

Kenny sighed. "Jesus," he said. "You  _are_  a spaz, aren't you?" He dug around in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a little baggie of weed. "Want to smoke? I don't have any wrapping papers, but we can pull some pages from Token's bible. Doubt he'd notice."

Tweek just balked at him. "You're fucking crazy!" he said.

Kenny laughed, again, and in spite of himself Tweek laughed a little, as well. He supposed it was rich, coming from him.

Tweek did not take Kenny up on the offer to smoke, still thinking about driving later. Craig had a few more beers—he said that they were good, very  _rich_ and  _hoppy_ , and of course they were, because they were from a  _Denver craft brewery_ that only Token could afford to buy  _cases_ from for a  _high school graduation party_ —and Tweek was certain it would be him behind the wheel. Kenny rolled a joint in front of him, using some wrapping papers he asked around until he found. "Who the fuck brings weed but not wrapping paper?" the guy who gave them to Kenny asked.

"Trying to make a profit," Kenny responded. "Gonna smoke a little, and then sell. You in?"

"No," the guy said. "I get my stuff from a supplier in East Park."

"That must be Franny," he said to Tweek, as if Tweek would know who Franny who sold weed from East Park was. "She's my competition," he added unhelpfully.

"Aren't you not supposed to sample your own product?" Tweek asked him dubiously as Kenny brought the joint to his mouth. It was admittedly skinny, but still.

Kenny shrugged. "Do I look like a guy that lives by the rules?" he asked.

Tweek said nothing; of course Kenny did not, but he was not about to humor him by saying so.

Soon the room filled with the dead skunk smell of weed and despite Craig's advice, Tweek left. The hyperosmia had messed with him, or maybe it was just the quality of Craig's new supply, but Tweek really could not stomach the stench of the shit Kenny was smoking. Good weed smelled strong, but there was something  _rank_ in Kenny's, something impure.

He wandered around until he found someone familiar yet unengaged and unthreatening. It was harder than he thought it'd be; it seemed that everybody besides him and Craig had made Park County friends, and those that hadn't were either making out or talking in the low, quiet way with somebody that meant they would soon be making out. It amazed Tweek, the way parties like this either turned into utter ragers or borderline orgies. Then again, all he wanted to do was pull Craig into a dark corner of their own.

On the back porch he finally located somebody: Wendy. She was alone, sitting on the steps, barefoot and with a jacket draped around her shoulders. Tweek eased him beside her and startled when  _she_ startled.

"Jesus, Tweek. I didn't hear you coming," she said, laughing and putting a hand on his arm. Tweek was pretty sure she was tipsy, if not outright drunk.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked her.

"Just thinking," she said, staring out at the rolling backyard of the Black household. They had a lovely view of the mountains, currently wrapped in nighttime clouds. Cicada song rose from the trees. The Blacks' back porch were lit by yellow globe lights strung across a loose, effortless framework. The pool sat off another section of the house, closed in by a screen. Here, they just had the rolling, manicured lawn that faded into the mountains, trimmed hedges and flowers dotting the way. It was perhaps too neat for Tweek's taste. A certain anxiety filled in the gaps of things that were too manufactured, too perfect.

"About Token?" Tweek ventured, even though he cringed as he did. He must be desperate, if he were asking Wendy about her love life.

"No, actually." Wendy sighed. Tweek thought she needed a cigarette, or a joint, to complete her picture. "I'm thinking about my graduation speech. How terrible it was. Like, Jesus, that's not me, is it?" She looked at him as if she expected an answer, so Tweek shook his head in quick little whips, even though he had no idea what she was talking about. "Fucking clichés. Token said nobody cares, nobody's going to remember what speech the Valedictorian gave, but  _I_ care."

"Then he should care, too!" Tweek said. "I mean—a good boyfriend would care!"

"Oh, he does care. He was just trying to make me feel better." Wendy waved the notion off with her hand. "Speaking of boyfriends—where's yours? You look, like, wrong. Alone." She tilted her head and peered at him, as if she could make Craig appear by his side with enough willpower.

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" Tweek screeched, pulling at his hair. "I don't know where he's went! He's been weird!"

"Weird?" Wendy's eyebrows raised, her head still tilted. "Like he was in elementary school?"

"Yeah, kind of, actually." Tweek knew he couldn't explain everything to Wendy. Not only did he really not want to do that, she didn't seem drunk enough that she'd forget this encounter. He was already itching to get away from it.

"Oh." Wendy looked back out at the backyard, pensively. "Want me to kick his ass for you?"

Tweek shouted laughter, much like a predatory bird screeching before swooping down on its prey. It surprised him, and he put his hand over his mouth. He had to admit that, if he were to make a friend in South Park, Wendy wouldn't be a bad friend to make. He was certain she would—and could—kick Craig's ass. "No!" he said, still laughing. "That's not—necessary!"

"'Kay. But I'm  _serious_ , Tweek." Wendy looked at him, clearly trying to make her face as serious as possible. "I don't put up with guys who treat other people like shit. I'm a feminist. Men think—"

And Tweek did bolt at that, revoking any feelings of fondness that might have been forming. The last thing he needed was to get in a philosophical—political?—debate about feminism. Not that Tweek wasn't a feminist, or anything; ideologies were, as he might have said, too much pressure.

Giving up, he was making his way back to the living room when somebody grabbed his arm. He turned around to see that it was Token, crouching in a little nook that had a small bay window and seat. "You can't go in there yet," he said, pulling Tweek into the nook with him.

"Why not?" Tweek asked.

"Craig's orders," Token said. He was whispering, but a little too loudly, and his breath smiled like the sour apple of the craft beer. "You'll see."

"Oh, Jesus," Tweek moaned.

In the shadow of the nook he could make out some sort of modern art piece on the wall that didn't have a window, lots of colors and harsh lines. He peered at it, trying to see it more clearly, when he heard somebody shout from the living room that they were ready. Footsteps followed, and then Clyde was at the nook, too.

"It's time," he said to Token. He was as grave as if he were announcing the commencement of a funeral.

"Cool." Token smiled. He poked Tweek in the shoulder. "Come on. We're going to the living room."

Tweek followed, eyes wide and feeling lost in a house he was quite familiar with. The living room was relatively quiet, most party noises hushed. When Tweek walked in, he saw that all the furniture had been pushed around to border the area in front of the television, forming a sort of stage. Stan was sitting on a barstool—Tweek thought it was one of the ones from Token's dining room—with an acoustic guitar absolutely knackered in stickers. Tweek recognized a few bands, some local skiing ranges and various earthy brands. Beside him stood Craig, standing ramrod straight with his palms tucked against the side of his thighs, focusing on the wall above the back archway to the living room through which Tweek walked. The various denizens of the party were gathered around the walls, all eyes trained on Tweek. Most wore curious expressions, but Tweek saw Kenny—it was hard not to, he was freakishly tall, taller than even Craig, and currently covered in tiger stripes—wearing a giant, stoned grin.

Clyde and Token departed from either side of Tweek and scurried to take their places in the crowd, reminding Tweek of servants attending to their member of royalty. Token wrapped an arm around Wendy's shoulders; she absolutely beamed at him. Clyde shoved himself in with other members of the Park County football team.

"Tweek," Craig began. His eyes lowered until they were focused on Tweek. "Come here."

Tweek took a few steps inside the room, until he was standing in the mouth of the furniture-barrier.

Craig took a deep, deep breath, and his eyes closed slowly. "I've been a shit boyfriend. No, a shit person," he said, and Tweek saw the care to which he took to keep his expression neutral. "That isn't going to make sense to any of you guys, and you're too all too drunk to really get this, but Tweek and I are used to being our own thing. Aren't we, Tweek?" he paused, as if actually waiting for a response, and Tweek nodded quickly. "Right. Anyway. I consulted with all the other Craigs, to see how they make up to their Tweeks, and this is what they told me to do."

Stan, who had been watching Craig as he spoke with an intense, focused expression, started to strum the guitar. The sound was nice, and Tweek watched his hands move for a few seconds before turning his attention back to Craig. The muscles around Craig's mouth were twitching, as if warming up, and then Craig started to sing a very slow, very sweet, very simple, very soft tune:

_Light will pour, out of your eyes  
_ _Down into, a field of spies  
_ _The grass is green, the sky is blue  
_ _All the sun, bullies the moon_

_But I will make you see, that you belong to me  
_ _Stick me to you, nature needs no glue  
_ _Always be true_

_Thinking, drinking, sinking feeling._

Tweek wiped tears from his eyes. He wasn't sure if he was crying because of what Craig was doing, or how Craig  _sounded_  —Tweek was always surprised, always undone, at the gorgeous sound of Craig's voice. He ran forward and wrapped his arms around Craig's neck, cutting him off the  _ing_ of  _feeling_ as he kissed him with all his might, their wet tears mingling on his face. Tweek thought he heard a snuffling that could only be from Stan, as well, and somebody—Kenny, probably—cheered from the crowd. Token announced that it was a good show, made some joke about how he'd take their donations now, and the party exploded back into life around them as Tweek and Craig continued to kiss, their hands grabbing onto each other hard enough to leave bruises. Tweek remembered Craig's thirteenth birthday party, this exact same situation, and how once more they were surrounded by friends who knew but did not know. That was enough, though, because like Craig said—all the Craigs, all the Tweeks, they were each other's one and only, they were enough, and they were in this together, swirling around in the cosmic soup of the universe. They had repaired the schism they had opened. They had returned—or perhaps forged anew—their baseline. They were together, for real.


	16. Epilogue: Love Wherever You Go

Some things change, some things remain the same. Craig and Tweek now lived in Denver, approaching the end of their sophomore year of college—and their ten-year anniversary. They lived in their cramped little apartment, cluttered with all the succulents Tweek loved to keep and all the space posters Craig could convince him to hang on the wall, funded by their respective part-time programming and barista jobs. They had a pair of pet guinea pigs, named Wright and Armstrong, and Craig still adored his small creatures. He still adored his habits, as well.

In the morning he'd fight an instinctual laziness to pull away from Tweek and silence the alarm. They tried to match their schedules as best they could, even though they took very different classes, but Craig had morning classes most days where Tweek did not. He'd smooth Tweek's hair and kiss his face until he went back to sleep and then he'd go to the kitchen. He'd put on a pot of coffee and sit with his laptop, checking his email and eating a breakfast of either bran cereal or boiled eggs. Then he'd pour some coffee over ice into a tumbler for himself and leave the rest in a quiet wait for Tweek.

He'd drive his own car into school, listening to the mixtape he'd intended to give to Tweek for their ten-year anniversary. He was still in the progress of perfecting it; he was trying to pick out songs that generally fit him but also celebrated their last major drama, the tumultuous months on the tail end of their senior year that were so uncertain and awful and yet simultaneously so raw and exhilarating. It was difficult, both to select the music and to revisit those memories, but Craig was working on dealing with his own emotions. Tweek had been trying to convince him to see a therapist, but Craig was reluctant. He did not need one; he needed to just continue the arduous process of peeling back his own layers. His mother had spent the last two years in jail, serving a four-year sentence, though her first probation appeal was approaching. Ruby was still in high school, but she had her driver's license now. Craig had bought her a car. He'd gotten out of South Park but felt, at times, that half his mind and his heart lived there still, while half lived here with Tweek.

He knew Tweek would love the mixtape; he just had to get it as right as he'd gotten his performed apology at Token's graduation party. That song, was of course, the penultimate song on the mixtape; the last one was the first one Craig had picked out, a joyous celebration of whistling and guitar and the persistent desire to be together. For no matter how difficult things got, in South Park and in Denver and everywhere in between, they knew that they wanted to be together, forever and for always, for real.

Compared to his drive to high school, the drive to campus from his apartment was short, always catching him off-guard. He sort of missed the long, sprawling drives through the countryside, though he took one every Friday, when it was time for Tweek's appointment with Dr. Watt. More rarely he and Tweek would depart on the weekends to visit South Park. Tweek would see his parents, have dinner and catch them up on their happenings in Denver, while Craig would work on things at home. Since his mother went to jail his father relied on him to pay their bills, to sort out all of Ruby's needs, even to go grocery shopping. Craig thought that another, lesser man might despise Tweek, sitting in luxury and wealth in his nice, big, clean house with his parents while Craig picked through bargain bin deals at Wal-Mart, but Craig ached to return to Tweek at the end of the day.

Craig offered for Ruby to come live with them several times. They didn't really have room in the apartment, but Craig could figure something out. There were schools in Denver. But Ruby refused. Craig thought it was due in part to Karen McCormick, who'd Ruby'd gone silent about despite her previous, rather loud, longing. Craig had his suspicions, but he knew better than to pry. God, did he know better than to try and force anything prematurely when it came to relationships.

He'd sit through his math and his programming classes, again fighting that instinctual tug of laziness in his gut. He'd eat at the college's cafeteria for lunch, grabbing their surprisingly good (and free) iced coffee, and he would wait for Tweek. Kenny often ate with them as well, regaling them with whatever he'd been studying in his philosophy classes, arguing that he knew the inner workings of the universe better than anybody else out there. Tweek would get really into these conversations; Craig would lean back and watch them, smiling, a little dazed at the reality of his life.

After that he generally had one more class—two more, on Tuesdays and Thursdays—and then he'd drive back to the apartment, where he would work on his programming assignments and jobs while waiting for Tweek to return. The only day this was broken was on Wednesday, when Tweek had a night class and Craig had college choir practice. Tweek's class and Craig's practice were in the same building; they'd find themselves a deserted little corner and peck and coo at each other until they had to separate, and each time to Craig it felt as dramatic as if he were going off to war.

They Skyped with Token, who was up at Dartmouth in New Hampshire with Wendy, regularly, and received less regular but lengthy letters in the mail from Clyde from his deployment in Korea. He had apparently fallen in love with an army nurse there, and despite Craig's grumbling and sarcasm, he found the whole story sort of sweet. Tweek did so more openly, always excited to get another letter from Clyde. They'd sit on the floor—this tradition started when they'd just moved in and had not assembled all their furniture yet—and read the letters out to each other, alternating between a booming, old Hollywood romantic lead sort of voice and an affectation of Clyde's sort of awful nasal drone (the latter being easier for Craig than he'd like to admit.)

They ate dinners in together, both for cheapness and for the comfortable domesticity. Craig cooked more often than not, but he didn't mind; Tweek had a tendency to abuse the spice rack, which resulted in wonderful dishes as often as terrible ones. At least Craig was more stable. They borrowed a lot of recipes from Tweek's mother, substituting the more expensive ingredients, and watched a lot of the cooking channel. Only the calming, hour-long specials; the competition shows made Tweek anxious.

After dinner they'd watched Netflix and cuddle on the couch, doing homework on and off. Sometimes they took a bath as well, plucking a bath bomb from their ever-growing collection and lighting candles. Pretty much every night they would fuck, wherever and whenever the mood struck them. The initial craze of horniness Craig had experienced two years ago had worn off, but sex still felt like something that shattered the universe every time, in spite of—or, Craig thought,  _because_ —their delayed beginning.

Things were not always perfect. Tweek had episodes; Craig had a constant stream of bad news trickling in from South Park. Their guinea pigs were more expensive than they thought they'd be. Classes were hard. Isolation hit them sometimes, despite their posturing that they needed nobody but each other (hence the sudden and strong friendship with Kenny McCormick.) Yet they were happy, and they were together, and more than that they were  _certain_.

And those were Craig's days. Until they weren't.

For college is a temporary state, and after they would graduate they would move to California so Tweek could go to grad school and Craig could break into the game development world. There, Tweek would propose marriage at a restaurant where he dropped the ring into his bowl of potato soup, and Craig would reveal that he'd been planning something for the next month. Then they would relocate back to Colorado, and then they would marry, and then Ruby would volunteer as an egg donor and they would bring forth life, and they would grow very old and die within the same month, so long together that they did not know how to live apart. But that was a far way off, into a very distant, albeit certain, future. For now, Craig was content to get their coffee in the morning and listen to the mixes in the car, singing together, and he was content to kiss freely and surely, and he was content to say: yes, that is Tweek, my boyfriend and yes, we are gay, thank you very much, and mind your own goddamn business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> craig's mix: https://8tracks.com/ap0llos/for-tweek
> 
> i've also been working on a third mix for this fic because i am WEAK, that i'll edit this note for when i'm done with it. you can also watch my 8tracks or my tumblr for progress on that.
> 
> we're DONE!!! i wanted to get this fic to 70k words but i didn't want to force anything, especially in an epilogue, so oh well. we got close! this is the first novel-length fic i've ever actually finished, which is pretty great. i know there was that giant hiatus in the middle, but i'm telling myself that maybe i needed to finish this fic at this time in my life. it was certainly an experience. i would like to once again thank everybody that has commented, kudos'd or bookmarked this fic. i hope you are all satisfied with the ending and with the way the plot developed. 
> 
> and the title of this chapter is, of course, from five year's time by noah and the whale :)


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